I’m also not reading any news after this… July 7, 2009

We’re a nation of know-it-alls. Nay, a world of know-it-alls. Have you seen those bing.com commercials? I’ve felt that way for a long time. We all know too much. We have too much invested in everything. We’re all increasingly unaware of how absolutely annoying we’ve become.

What comes to mind is an episode of Scrubs, His Story IV. Everyone knows everything about the war in Iraq, thus everyone is right. Sigh. JD is blissfully ignorant about the whole thing and is shunned from conversation and in turn, his colleagues. By the time he takes the time to learn and formulate his own opinions, they’re over it. I know, you’re saying, “But it’s a 22 minute show, of course they’re over it.” But whether its 22 minutes or a week or a month, they always get over it.

If you don’t take the time to be well read on social, economic and political issues you become like the “rest of them”. Bumbling idiots that don’t have the brain capacity to even understand where the Pacific Ocean is (33% of Americans don’t, you know). But in a week, the very things that caused people to turn their noses up for, are moot. In what I could imagine being a very short amount of time, Sarah Palin won’t even have jokes written about by anyone but Jay Leno (zing).

Yeah, yeah, yeah. This sentiment might not be held by many, but the fact that it does exist is enough to point out. You’re no better than anyone for knowing anything. Put a rocket scientist in a farm and see how he does. Perspective, right? While it is important to know about your surroundings and the world, it isn’t important to be immersed. People get up in arms when others can’t answer simple questions about their own government. I think that we’re fortunate enough to have a governing body that (kind of) works well enough that it isn’t important for every citizen to be aware. We can focus our energies on other things, meaningful or not.

Everything is so heavy handed these days (I’m 76 years old), can you really blame them? The world is filled with sadness and anger all at the same time. Sometimes, you just need to zone out, be a moron, do things that don’t mean anything to even you. That’s what entertainment is for. By definition, it’s mindless dribble. Maybe not as defined in the OED, but yes, that’s what it means.

So why does even our entertainment have meaning and subtext? And in the same vein, why is the actual mindless dribble frowned upon? So what if I watch Survivor and Top Chef? Get off that horse, plz. I want a distraction from my shitty life, my shitty world so just leave me be.

The other day, I felt like self-harming so I mosey’d on over to pitchfork.com to see how they reviewed one of my favorite album’s right now, Regina Spektor’s Far. The first thing the reviewer pointed out was that she was 29 years old. And then reamed her for not creating music like the grown up she is. As if at some point in our lives, everything becomes deep and meaingful. You flip a switch and it’s no longer okay to be silly, light and fun. Being 30 means some dark, deep shit. Like, I have no idea what’s heading my way in six years. But thanks to Pitchfork for the heads up, for sure.

Why can’t Regina Spektor just release an album that’s weird and quirky and maybe lacking in the subtext? Is it because in the past she has written some beautifully meaningful lyrics that related to your life and the world? How dare she change or be in a different place in her life, am I right? Tailor your music to me, artists! You hear me? It’s all for me, not you! Screw that!

I’m all about making a statement through art, but sometimes it’s just art. Why does entertainment have to be knowledgeable and self-aware? It doesn’t. Get off it, world. I’m going to go listen to my dolphin noises and enjoy it for what it is: an agreeable occupation of my mind.

Can’t you come home with me?! April 17, 2009

I would be lying to say I have not received my fair share of compliments. I can’t say thank you to anything besides holding a door open, so I usually get a bit flustered. It’s also a ridiculous thought to return a compliment with a compliment. Seems forced and let’s face it, you wouldn’t have said anything if they didn’t.

“I love your shoes!”
“OH, um. I really like your…uh purse.”

That’s happened. And it sucks.

While in Florida I would constantly be complimented. One lady said, “It’s a good thing you’re the first one people see when they come in. You’re just so pretty!” Then someone else said I looked like Tori Spelling and I had to take my break because I thought I was going to start crying in front of guests. True story. I called my mom and told her and she was all OMG NO! I mean the lady ended her backhanded compliment with a “you’re gorgeous” but still. I’m not an alien! I take these compliments lightly though, thousands upon thousands of people walk through those gates daily. Someone is bound to find you attractive. So whatevs. It is weird and uncomfortable most of the time though, since married men sometimes ask if you’re a part-time princess in front of their wife and daughters.

My favorite compliments are the kind you never really think of getting. The ones that are so off the cuff that whoever said it probably didn’t even realize. Case in point: day before the regatta junior year.

Quite the party was raging in my pothead friends’ suite and everything was going swimmingly. Everyone was beyond plastered, and I’m sure was on my way. Then there was girl-like shrieking coming from a room and many were vacating. Turns out someone threw up and they were all too drunk to do anything about it but be morons. So I decided to take the reigns, along with a friend, to get things straightened out. We organized someone to help the vomiter get a clean shirt and washed up, I grabbed all that was in the spill zone. A comforter, blanket and hoodie. Now, if I was a smidgen more sober, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do this, but I’m impervious to bodily fluids while drinking apparently.

I took the grossness down to the laundry room and threw the stuff in the washing machines. Two machines mind you, this was an expensive night. The cycle finishes and I didn’t realize that the girl didn’t throw up just her beer, but it seemed like everything she ate in the past week. So I had to take everything out, and (EW) hand wash out a lot of it in a sink. After this I washed again, caused some mayhem with fire extinguishers and called it a night at 6am.

The next morning, I got up and went to grab the stuff out of the dryers. It was oddly still warm at noon. I walked back into my friend’s room, threw the hoodie to the owner in the common area and put the comforter and blanket on the bed. We were all discussing the night a bit and suddenly from the common area comes a yell, “OH MY GOD SMELL YOUR BLANKET! It smells just like Liz!” So he did, and he exclaims as well about how great it smells.

Best.compliment.ever.

It’s something I’ve never thought of. Smelling good isn’t a top priority as much as not smelling at all. So to hear that people enjoy my scent, that’s kinda awesome. And highly unexpected. I didn’t expect a room full of stoners* to be so excited about a clean smelling blanket.

The other day I was told I have the uncanny ability of making people feel involved in group settings. I never thought of it, but I guess I do. I don’t know if that’s a compliment as much as it’s an observation. An observation of my awesomeness, of course. I think something like this has to be pointed out in me since it’s quite the anomaly. I’m not nice by any stretch of the imagination, so for me to possibly compromise my good time just to make sure someone else is having fun doesn’t make sense. It’s crazy what the juice can make you do.

There was something else, but work is looming and all I can think about is how much I just don’t want to go. Damn crappy jobs. Damn them!

*So, they let ‘kinda’ slip by as correctly spelled, but ’stoners’ isn’t a correctly spelled word? Huh. Maybe the plural of stoner is stoner, like moose. Possibly (read: never) looking into this.

It’s intentionally wrong. March 9, 2009

I don’t read. Anymore. I don’t read anymore. I used to. A lot. Now? Not so much. See? Look at that. Can’t even form complete sentences. Anymore. Can’t even form compl–haha I’m done.

I have no idea what happened. I know sometimes you fade in and out of hobbies, but reading? You ALWAYS do that. And even people that say they don’t read probably read magazines that include articles about the fifteen latest hair trends or the new [insert car part here] in [insert car model here]. But I don’t read, period. I used to read a ton ‘o books. During my summer job I would get through three books a week. I had a lot of down time, I wasn’t slacking.

I have a subscription to Rolling Stone and I browse it. I decide on the articles I will read later on, put it down and only touch it again if it’s in the way. I don’t read on moving things because it makes me sickly. I don’t read when I’m in my room because I have a computer to do cooler shit on and a bed that I can sleep in. The rest of the house is never quiet enough. I don’t work so there isn’t even anything to say about that. I mean, in normal workplaces you wouldn’t read but when you have the morning shift at a tanning salon during the summer without internet access, you do.

Last weekend I was on the subway and without my ipod for some devastating reason I’m sure, and a lot of people were reading. Even the guy standing in front of me was highlighting while reading. This is amazing mostly because my lack of balance makes a feat like that virtually impossible for the likes of me. But anyway, I felt like some plebeian, out of the intelligence loop. Even all the ads were about reading. Or learning English…so you can read it. I thought about it for a while. Then I drank a lot and forgot about it.

Til today!

Last week my mom gave me a gift certificate to Amazon. Her rewards card actually gives her rewards. What a concept. LEARN IT CHASE/VISA/DISNEY. She doesn’t really do much online if it has more steps than ‘hit send’, so I get to reap the rewards. I knew exactly what book I wanted and just about bought it that night. But the poor in me decided to wait it out. Free money means spend it as intelligently as possible. I wasn’t really in the mood to shop around, so I put it off and went off to catch up on Naruto or something equally as embarrassing.

Today I decided to go ahead with my plan. I figured that I might be able to squeeze out five books and forgo shipping if I spend like, a dollar of my actual money. I went to bargain books and then to their 4-for-3 deals. Quite frankly, I didn’t get it. I click on ‘$5 and under’ on bargain books and none of the books that were in the 4-for-3 deal were on there and yet a bajillion of them were under $5. Whatever Amazon, you have issues. In any case, I got eight books and free shipping with only paying $1.07 of real money.

What eight you might ask?

I kinda forgot already. They were the kind of books you hear about all the time but never read. One was Moby Dick. When I think of that book the only thing that pops in my head is that scene in Pinocchio when that whale eats him or whatever goes on in that crazy movie. I figured this was inaccurate.

One book was short stories about some guy that helps people commit suicide. It was by the guy that wrote Treasure Island. Back it up. Thinking out loud: isn’t a book of short stories all about the same guy essentially just a book with chapters? I’ll take this up with the dead author after I get through it.

Nevermind the fact that I can’t remember what I got, I will read them. I’m kinda sick of my life right now and this is definitely a progressive step. I’m not letting my brain turn into mush. You will never win Alec Baldwin.

It makes me feel bad for the unfinished books on my shelf. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell is the longest book in the history of man, earth and time so I got maybe a third through. A few details are rather fuzzy, and names are important so I would have to start from the beginning again and quite frankly, NO. I started reading a book about American leaders while in Florida, and if I had started it earlier I probably would have finished. But I didn’t and at the end of my stay I was working everyday and drunk a lot more often. It is the kind of book you can just pick up again, and maybe I will. I have a trip coming up and I think I’m okay on planes. Plus Southwest has no TVs. What a joke, that airline. The Maltese Falcon, The Losers’ Club, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, Glamorama, Possible Side Effects, Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules, Kick Me. Never even touched. Why am I buying more?

If all else fails and I don’t even read them, at least they diversify my bookshelves. I can fake smart. I can fake smart good.

Thoughts only the unemployed would have February 10, 2009

So a few Sundays ago it was the Super Bowl. Woo! Right? I didn’t really pay attention to anything this past season so I had no idea who was in it. So it was surprising to me that there was a team called the Cardinals there. Isn’t that baseball?

I apparently was not alone in this sentiment so I didn’t feel too out of touch. Being a New Yorker, you hear about the Giants and Jets all the time; and then there’s the other wildly popular teams like the Cowboys and Packers that have hefty fan bases all over the place. But when I was sitting at the annual Super Bowl party hosted by one of my dad’s BFF from high school, I realized that Cuba Gooding Jr. played on the Cardinals in Jerry Maguire. So, they’ve been around. On TV? No. But, around.

I knew the first thing that I was going to do when I got home. Well, after turning the interior lights off in my car that’s been sitting there for nine-plus hours. I’m looking up when this team came into existence. Holy. Camoley. 1920. Are you serious? This team has been around for 90 years, and all I can remember about them is from the movie that sprung the line, “show me the money”?!

That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m sick of kinda knowing the game and being flippant about who I want to win.

See, from a tender age I’ve understood football. My brother played youth football and my dad coached him and continued to coach for almost 20 years. I would watch Sunday, Monday and Thursday with my dad; asking little questions when I didn’t understand calls or plays. Then when I went to college this continued with my friends. They all loved their own teams and whenever a game was on, it was on. I was even awoken at 8am one year to watch the draft. Poor Brady Quinn. Jokes.

So I understand the game, I don’t fight it when its on TV, and find it enjoyable enough to watch on a Sunday instead of Rock Of Love repeats. But what I never had was a favorite team. My dad is a Jets fan, presumably my brother too. They suck though, so fuck that. I couldn’t really even tell you many players names. If they aren’t gorgeous, a quarterback, or known for antics on or off the field, I don’t know them. With my reality mapped out in front of me I made a pledge to myself: have a team and a full knowledge of them (and opponents!) by next season.

This is so happening.

Most people choose a team due to an emotional attachment or just plain location. Neither New York team (fuck the Bills) do it for me so I decided to look at games played on my birthday. The Colts, Falcons and Chiefs have all won three games on that day. Something about the Chiefs just doesn’t sit well with me and the Falcons somehow remind me of the male nudity in Any Given Sunday. Maybe its the black helmets. I don’t know. So, Colts it is? Not so fast.

Before getting ahead of myself and choosing a team that after further investigation might rub me the wrong way, just like the teams I have eliminated, I need to get to know them better. And what better way than to start from the beginning. Not origins-of-football-in-Colonial-Jamestown-beginning, but NFL beginning. Year one, 1920.

I decided for the sake of becoming that asshole that’s all “well technically the club started in ____, but I guess you’re right *laugh*snort*laugh*”, I wouldn’t document anything before that year. And I would neglect any information about teams before they joined a professional league, NFL or otherwise.

I would document the progression of the game and league as well as the teams. Rule changes, game-altering games, presidents, commissioners, etc. I run through every year, documenting rule changes, milestones in broadcasting, final standings. Nothing really about specific teams; except the franchise establishment year, if they took a year off, combining teams, anything that effects the standings/roster of league basically, is written. Get to know the league before you get to know your team, right?

Upon doing this I watched a sad, sad truth unfold. And this truth is called the Lions. A great team, with a few iffy standings, up until 1957 I believe. Sure, they’ve been seen in the playoffs here and there, but aw. Last season. There’s something so endearing about something so terrible. When/If they win a game next season, it’ll be momentous. I love an underdog, but do I love this much of an underdog? Tough call. I’ll have to wait until I begin my thorough Lions research.

So that’s where I’m at basically. I’m just about to begin on individual teams, but my fire is fading a bit. Might take a bit longer than anticipated, but finding a job is holding just as true, so I got the time. Just so I don’t sound insane and obsessed, I do job search during the day and do other things. This kind of stuff mainly gets done between the time good TV ends and when I go to sleep. A sizable amount of time, mind you, so I can get a lot done.

When I find that special team, it’ll all be worth it. I was laughing as I typed that. I bet all this isn’t worth shit. Ha.

And now for something completely different. February 1, 2009

I cannot even fathom why I love this so much. I kind of hate it I love it that much. It’s a Korean pop group called Girls Generation. Something in me makes me think that the ‘girl’ part of their name should be possessive not plural but whatever. There’s NINE girls in that group. Every time I watch this beloved video of mine, I usually wander off in thought half-way through. Do they all like each other? I wouldn’t be able to get nine girls in a room and be absolutely certain they would be able to sing, dance and tour together. I wonder if the cattiness that poisons our drinking water is the same over in Asialand. Hmmm…

A half-hearted attempt fails January 30, 2009

My last semester in college I took a course on politics and rhetoric. After hearing Obama’s inauguration speech I was giddy with knowledge. Without even looking at it, I heard oodles and oodles of rhetorical devices used that I have used myself in said class. I was amazed I remembered these things, so I was going to take the timeout to analyze it. I did. And really? It’s super hard to write out without a hard copy sitting in front of you with numbered lines and paragraphs.

I can’t (and won’t) sit here and be all, “In paragraph four, line six he says…” because who in their right mind would look that up because I said it? I’m not some scholar whose opinion you would value. So I’m going to mostly shut up. Mostly.

Now, in the process of finding my rhetoric glossary o’ terms I came across my term paper for the class. I used to use big words. And this class was obviously a lot of work that I don’t remember, because I remember this class as being easy. Even without a play-by-play, or more appropriately a word-by-word, account I could still sit here all day and talk about his modes of persuasion and the arrangement and tone of it. Seriously, all day.

On a side note, you know how hard it is to focus on anything when Tool Academy is on?

So, this is really about nothing. I had it all saved up in a draft because I was going to think of a way to make it work. I didn’t, obviously. I guess this would be more of a declaration of “look what I can do!” than actually proving it or showing it to you. My half ass-ness makes me appear fake, eh?

Oh well. I have better things to write about later.

All I want for Christmas is… December 24, 2008

Ahhh, holidays. I love how it is so cut and dry; you either hate it or love it. I’m a lover of the holidays. I like the cold too. Only because I’m a firm believer that bugs should never be a part of my life. Ever.

Last night I was perusing articles on Jezebel.com, a site I frequent but lurking only. And there was one article about how one of the editors, who’s Jewish, kinda got off at the ability to ruin us Christian* kids’ idea of Santa. I was trying to remember the day that I learned Santa Clause didn’t exist. I would think this would be one of those pivotal moments of childhood, where you start to actually grow up and realize that make-believe is actually make-believe. It would be like, everyone knew where they were on 9/11 and everyone remembers when they found out Santa and the Easter bunny didn’t exist, you know? But I don’t know when it was. I actually can’t remember a time when I genuinely believed in a bloated man breaking and entering into my home in the most ridiculous way possible to leave me goodies that I’ve never told anyone but my mom that I wanted.

For the most part, I LOVED that I was getting presents. I was a spoiled shit growing up. Like I cared who was giving them to me. It isn’t like I rejected the idea of Santa though. I was never that kid that needed “proof”. I put out cookies even though I knew there were presents upstairs in my parent’s room. It was just accepted that this man was going to be in the house for a reason unknown and all this magic was going to happen or something. Whatever. I’m glad I grew out of that whole ‘just accept this as the truth’ phase. Too bad everyone doesn’t grow out of it. *cough*

Now with all that said, this story is a completely anomaly in my life. It doesn’t add up to much and remains a mystery to me. It is possible I could have been dreaming, but I can remember waking up. Like when you wake up but your eyes are still closed because you know what woke you up wasn’t supposed to wake you up. Now that I confused you with that last sentence, on with it.

My mom would always put our stockings in our rooms as like a road block to waking them up in the morning. So we would marvel at personalized toothbrushes and pencils for long enough to give them an extra half hour or so to sleep. At some point I must’ve been told that Santa doesn’t actually put them in our rooms but that an elf helps a brother out and does it for him. One Christmas Eve, (Which by the way, I think I was old enough that my parents didn’t even wait til night to put out the presents and we even got to open one on Christmas Eve. Plus I could see which meant I had my contacts in, had to be at least 6th grade.) I woke up to sound and like I said, didn’t open my eyes. I figured someone got up to pee or something so I opened my eyes and saw something in my room. My eyes adjusted to the dark and swear to all the things on this Earth, there was someone in my room. Not just someone, but a fucking midget. I silently freaked out because a real life elf was in my room. I closed my eyes and waited for some noise to cue that it left but I didn’t hear anything. And i could even feel the presence in my room, like it knew I saw it and was just waiting for me to look again. I think I scared myself back to sleep because I don’t recall anything else.

Maybe a midget used to live in my old house and died and came back to visit. Ooooh, I can see ghosts.

Either way, I think about this little guy constantly around Christmas and it pretty much blows. With that said, Merry Christmas and that good stuff.

*I feel funny calling myself Christian when I clearly do not believe in that anymore. Like Santa, I just stopped accepting it and when questions can’t be answered and logic outweighs faith, it feels just as silly to believe in a book of fables as it does to believe in Santa Clause. But for argument sake, I was of that faith back then and it just fits story-wise. Even though I fucking hated going to church.

And in a completely unrelated note, I gave in and love Rihanna now. I’m such a sucked for pop music.

I love when movies become reality! December 17, 2008

I feel like this is a great place to shit on my life. Depression needs an outlet, happiness doesn’t. But I’m forcing myself not to. While I have had a less than stellar passed seven months, I refuse to give in to this. I refuse to be devoured by the shortcomings that my life has chosen to offer me recently. I got half that sentence from a lyric, in a song that I don’t know the name of but so happen to be listening to. I digress. Once you’re in a hole, you’re in a fucking hole. Deal with it. I hate hearing other people bitch so I’m not going to. That glass looks half full to me. Or at least that’s how I tell it.

Hear about the lady that had her face transplanted? Yeah, yeah, yeah. They did this in France like, three years ago. But here in Cleveland or some city that I don’t care about in the middle of the country, they did it for the first time in the States. Can you imagine being so unhappy with yourself that you take on the decision to look like someone else for the rest of your life? And not just someone else, someone else’s wife, daughter, mother, etc. What if they chose a donor that lived by you. And that family just so happens to be taking a walk through the park when you’re taking the dog for a walk. That would freak me the fuck out. Probably doesn’t happen like that but still, a lot of people are thinking that. Now when you sign your driver’s license to donate organs…does it include your face?! I’m so intrigued but disgusted at the same time. Blood makes me woozy.

The physical implications of doing such a thing are so life-threatening I just don’t get it. The physical therapy you’re going to have to go through. The permanent nerve damage. How would it feel to kiss someone? Could you even feel it? So you got mauled by a dog. Yeah, people judge but fuck them. I know that’s easier said than done but really. I’m sure after a few months or years for the sensitive types, you would grow a thicker skin. What if your body rejects your new face? I would think a procedure like this is pretty irreversible. New face or die a horrific death and literally, not in your own skin..or caused by your own skin.  I’m sure these surgeons are skilled enough to make them look like themselves so that isn’t really what gets me. Why put your life on the line for something as subjective as a good looking face? Ah, western ideals of beauty. They get me every time. What a hoot.

Of course who am I to talk? Old people think I’m pretty. I got it made. Ballin’!

Wouldn’t it be so much more interesting if it was more like Face/Off? Getting not just skin but like, a whole different head? It would also be crazy cool if they only used this type of surgery to infiltrate dangerous crime rings. They had to do a skull transplant or something because Travolta’s head is roughly the size of the DeathStar and wouldn’t the people around Nic Cage realize that his head ballooned to an astounding size? Wouldn’t they ask questions like, “You okay, man? You look a little…swollen in the head parts”. I’m assuming they’re fucking morons that would say things like “head parts”. It was a stupid movie.

Thoughts every holiday should evoke. December 1, 2008

I have this really funny private entry that basically outs that I hate half the people I converse with on the daily. Man, I crack myself up. But that’s not what I’m here for today.

Yesterday I had Thanksgiving part duex. The real one was mom’s side, this one was dad’s side. I enjoy the company of all my family and I’m not going to bore anyone with details of how great everyone is and all that yummy, cuddly bullshit. So, I’ll enlighten you on something that came up during conversation.

During dessert, the topic of not wanting to know what your kids are really doing came up. Like, drinking, drugs, stuff like that. My uncle’s philosophy is unless you get caught, you don’t have to share this shit with the world. I, of course, kept my mouth shut. Apparently my cousin was found smoking the weed once by my uncle and was in turn called a moron for doing such thing. While I realize this is a sentiment that many would pass on to their kin, I would not be able to. I can’t really lie like that. I can lie about unimportant things but I can’t lie about how things effect me. Weed has done nothing but enriched my life. For serious. I met a lot of great people and got a lot of work done. THC stimulates dopamine production in your brain, which in turn helps you concentrate. During the time that I was smoking the heaviest, I did my best in school. Who would’ve thought.

Now, most people call weed a gateway drug. It is. Well, it was for me. But no big deal. I can’t say I found anything those drugs did to be so wondrous I can’t live without them. But who says I would want to anyway? For 8-10 hours of life you get to escape and be someone else, so why not. Plus, none of these drugs have had any effect on my life. If anything I have ever done was hurting me in any way it would most definitely be alcohol. I’ve missed work, been to tests drunk and have missed deadlines. Different story for a different time, I suppose. But I will say this, I took my AMS final out of my head stoned and got a 98. I still wonder where those two points went. Damnit.

The first time I ever did anything outside of smoking was acid. It was quite the group, ten of us in all and only two have ever done it, or any hard drugs, before. We all made a pact not to fuck with each other, just in case someone had a bad trip and even the resident ballbuster was unusually nice to us. I’m going to say that we all had fairly low dosages of it, but that’s not saying we didn’t feel it.

We did some miscellaneous stuff, made grilled cheese, walked around, sit around, got locked out, smoked, etc. before some of us really felt it. Four of us decided to go on a trip to a dining hall for some reason. Maybe we were hungry but this seems debatable considering we would’ve been leaving a room with pizza in it. So we leave on our adventure and decide that the shortcut through the woods would help us out since we had no idea what time it was and the woods cuts about 10 minutes off the walk. So we’re walking and walking…and walking….and walking. Time was standing still basically and we were getting nowhere it seemed. One of my friends began to be scared being in the back of the pack and I was forced to stay behind him while holding his hand(aww, right?). So we finally get there and we all decide that there’s nothing that we want. On the way out, a muffin is spotted in a plastic container.

My scaredy cat friend goes, “We have to buy this muffin, we’re going to need it”.

I agree and get it. We walked back the normal way since the woods seemed even scarier…even though we had literally just emerged from them. Once we neared our building, we see a bunch of people we know. One of them is kinda pissed, he fell in a pond and had to go shower and change, thus he wasn’t able to get to any food establishment on campus to get something to eat before closing. Me and my friend just looked at each other. The muffin has fulfilled its prophecy. It was one of the most mind blowing moments of my life. He was even excited that it was a muffin! Perfect!

One of the people decided to tag along with us back inside instead of riding around on his bike drunk. While we didn’t really want him with us, we didn’t want to put forth any effort to make up lies about why he couldn’t follow. We figure we can just drop in to the ballbuster’s, and he’ll effectively scare him and rid him of us. It didn’t really work out that way though…

We got in his room and found that our dealer was in there and in some strange twist owed weed to him. Who are we to question? So we all somehow regrouped and shoved in a room is like, 15 of us smoking for hours. The drunk bicyclist began telling us how he used to smoke when he was younger but decided to quit. After some prodding we found out he smoked once at the tender age of 15 and then never again. Until that night. As a group, we were all pretty heavy smokers, multiple times a day, everyday raises your tolerance and we were able to smoke for hours on end without any unintended effects. For the drunk, not the case. It felt like hours but in reality was probably only 20 minutes of smoking and he had had enough. Before departing, he decided to enlighten us as to why he had to leave. And it went a little something like this:

“Sorry guys but I gotta go upstairs. I’m about to pop a boner and I’m gunna have to take care of this”.

Silence. Someone followed him out to re-towel the doors, but none of us moved. We maybe stared at each other in disbelief. The second the re-toweler came back, we all died. Laughing, crying, exclaiming. What in the world would possess someone to let a room full of basically acquaintances know that? Best. Line. Ever.I think this was the point that everyone decided this was worth it and would hardly agree in another round.

It also posed as the beginning of the end, as the effects started to wear off, the fact that daylight was on the horizon was setting in and we all started nodding off and going our separate ways. I do believe it was 6:30AM when I left, and I woke up around 7PM. I had to make cookies, pfeffernüsse to be exact, for German class so I started on that instead of seeing how everyone else fared. While baking in the basement kitchen I was pleasantly surprised to be visited by one of my friends that was part of the adventure in the woods. He wouldn’t stop talking about how great it was and the fact that most, if not all of the other people are still not awake. I took the opportunity to bring them some cookies to wake up to, even if pfeffernüsse isn’t exactly a tempting treat.

After recalling the night, I think I have a new way of thinking about this. I’m not so sure that we were all really on board with this and started a little skeptical. Once we were going though, that’s what becomes the gateway. Weed has limiting effects on what it can do to you, but hallucinogens? Not the case. So my gateway was actually LSD, not this herbal remedy the world seems to be obsessed with. This are the types of drugs though that “open your mind” so maybe it takes doing drugs to advocate their usage properly or not at all. Hmm, taking drugs to fight drugs? Maybe I’ll write a letter to my Congressman.

OH the humanity! November 24, 2008

Something in me knew that this day would come. Sooner than I would have hoped. It’s official, I’m off the dairy wagon.

Apparently, I was allergic to milk as a baby but somehow grew out of it if that’s possible. I guess you could say I was allergic to milk fat since I drank skim milk and don’t ever recall having other options in the house. Plus, when you grow up on skim all other milks taste disgustingly thick, so it isn’t like I would’ve gone out of my way for a nice glass of whole milk. But anyway, I could tolerate milk and didn’t ever feel like dying.

Suddenly in college I was struck with an intolerance to lactose, accompanied with the cramping and nauseous-ness. But it would come and go, so it never really curbed any intake, I love cereal and yogurt and string cheese; and none were about to be cut out of my life because of a little stomach pain. Most of the time it wasn’t even pain, just a touch of discomfort and sometimes it had no effect. The only reason I abstained from dairy while in Florida was mostly because it was too expensive on my minimum wage paycheck and I’m obscenely selfish when it comes to things I buy for myself. If I ever saw there was less milk in that container than what I had left, I would have probably killed someone.

Last week I had noticed after a delicious bowl of cinnamon toast crunch that my throat felt a little scratchy. I thought I was just getting sick, but the next day the feeling was gone. Until I had another bowl. My tongue felt awfully swollen and my jaw felt tight along with the scratchy throat. I guess I wasn’t really bothered much by it since both times I wasn’t really awake long enough afterwards to feel effected by it. But then a few days ago after waking up astoundingly early for myself (9AM on my own!) I went to get some coffee from Dunkin Donuts. Skim milk, two splendas. I drank it rather quickly and the caffeine gave me an incredible boost to get things done. Maybe around noon I had noticed the amount of pain I was in, and I told my mom. Now since I don’t have insurance, I’m not going to go to an allergist to figure this out since it can be easily avoided, so motherly advice will have to do. My mom said that she sometimes gets the same feeling from splenda, so that could be it. But last night, despite all good reasoning I had some cereal just to put the final nail in the coffin. Of course my throat hurt and my jaw is still sore-ish.

So goodbye dairy! We had such a good run! It just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe this is my body’s way of driving home the point that the lactose intolerance was supposed to handle. Whoops. Nonetheless, this blows. Mostly because I’m bound to think to myself one day “Nah, I can eat this” and I’ll totally regret it. And I bet I’ll wind up with brittle bones when I’m an old lady. You can’t really be the cool grandma with brittle bones! I should start working on my scowls and saying things that begin with “kids these days…” and “you don’t know how easy you have it”. What a life to look forward to…