I've been neglecting you, SG. Shame on me. I'm writing this with a bit of a hangover. I only woke up a half hour ago at 3. So this entry might not make sense. Yesterday my International Talk Like a Pirate Day (the penulimate activity of the day was Drink Rum Until You Can't Stand Up, Pass Out, or Die of Alcohol Poisoning Drinking Contest -- hence the hangover) was interrupted by a zoology review session for a test we have on Tuesday. I had an eye patch over my right eye because even girl pirates like to have depth perception, and I also had a Dwarves shirt on because phallic skull-and-crossbones are funny. My zoology professor conducted the beginning of the review in Piratese, and then she explained that she was celebrating International Talk Like a Pirate Day and wanted to get all her "yarr yarrs" out. Just to clarify, this is my favorite class this semester.
I hate boys. The boy I slept with is being weird and calling me and looking at me plaintively in class and distracting me from the lectures. I'm no prize. What does he want? I told him before we got together that I am 100% not looking for a relationship right now, but I didn't tell him why. And I guess he wants to know why. "Oh, I had a passive-aggressive relationship with a sadistic bitch for five years who liked to see me cry, and I was too stupid at that age to realize that I didn't deserve that shit." I guess he could be a nice boy, but he is fresh out of college and straight into the college experience.
Aw. Reverb just ended. Dang. I have no idea what it is, and I don't know why HBO didn't hype it more, and I would've missed it if it wasn't for my one-and-only-true-love TiVo. I love you, TiVo. I am telling my TiVo to replay that show I just watched. I don't have to rewind it or anything! The spark from our initial love affair hasn't faded, we're still so very much in love. Anyhow. Reverb. I guess it was an Icelandic two-for-one deal. I sat down and watched the Bjork part. That was lovely. She's so cute and has such an amazing voice. And no, she isn't garage. I like music that isn't garage, it's just that I grew up with Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, and that opened the door for dirty garage revival music. Then I discovered bands like the Seeds, and I really need to stop it with the mid-paragraph tangents. Bjork had a full traditional Icelandic chorus, and a man shuffling cards, and a cute girl who played the harp and also the accordion which I now am an expert at playing. I had cursory lessons in the accordion from my Russian-Polish grandparents when I was a kid and they were still alive, and I fleshed out my accordion repertoire recently. I'm good. Anyhow, it was entertaining to watch Bjork, and I enjoy listening to Sigur Ros when I like crying to sad, slow shoegazer music instead of country music. They played my favorite song off of the ( ) (that's "parentheses") album. I can't tell you the name of the song or the lyrics because they don't have lyrics. They use vocals as an instrument and let the sounds speak for themselves because they're pretentious like that, though I can tell you that it sounds like the lead singer is singing "it's you-ouuuuuuuuuuu" or something like that. But it's true. They have no stage presence. They gaze at their shoes. Also, the lead singer began to remind me of the boy I slept with. He is a cross between the lead singer of Sigur Ros and Justin Timberlake. Aw. I'm too lazy to open up the character map and check out which characters go where for those crazy Icelandic names. And I'm not going to have that cute little freshman boy infiltrate my brain. Go away, boy, I'm too fucked up for you.
I'm not made of stone. I may be mean to boys, and I may sometimes say that I will never have babies, and I hate babies, and they're annoying, but they're awfully fucking cute. My friend Ferdinand had a baby girl with his wife, and I bought them gifts. Macy's had a sale on Carter's baby clothes, and did you know that yellow is the new green? Green used to be the new pink. I got them some yellow and blue baby girl clothes for when she gets a leetle bit older, and I also got some newborn little smocky outfits. The best thing -- and some of you know my love for ducks and feeding ducks -- was a little tiny terrycloth bib in the shape of a duck's head. The beak -- get this! -- it SQUEAKS! I love it. I wanted to keep it and hang it on my kitty and make it go squeak squeak squeak and drive her crazy. But I didn't. Because that would make me look like a very sad young woman to an outsider. They loved the stuff and thanked me, and I played with their baby who they unfortunately named Valentina. People. Name your children something normal. Not fucking Rumor. I hate Demi Moore. Ferdinand assured me that their flame-point tabby kitties Misha and Mishou will continue to get spoiled rotten.
In other baby news, my icy heart melted a little bit more on the "Hurry 'Cane" shuttle. Yes, my fucking school named the shuttle service the "Hurry 'Cane." My heart isn't completely melted, though. I still want to say elevently-twelve-squillion expletives when I have to hop onto the shuttle in order to get from my psychology classes to my non-psychology classes CLEAR ON THE OTHER SIDE OF CAMPUS. By the way, my psychology statistics course drains me every single time. My zoology class is my favorite course this semester, but statistics is the worst course ever. Possibly worse than that fucktard Betsch and his stupid art history course, and Betsch LIKED me. I think because I could answer his stupid questions correctly when he called on me even though my hand was not raised, but he KNEW I would know it because I stupidly raised my hand and correctly answered a question that did not even have an answer, just a speculative mystery about Egyptian something-or-other. Man, I hated that course. Statistics is just 35 different kinds of suck. But my mom is happy that I got a C+ on the test I was so worried about. I was crying all week long, and screaming, and throwing books and pencils. And I figure I should work myself into such a state whenever I have a test so I don't disappoint my mom. But, hey, I was one point away from a single standard deviation of the mean. I was three points below the mean. I know many others did worse than I did, and the vast majority were unable to finish the test, and it just sucks. But my mom said a C+ for me in this course is like an A+ in any other course. Also, she noted that I get A's in all my other courses with a minimal amount of effort, and that I'm a smart cookie, and then she got on the floor and did her "Laurie got a good grade" kicky-legs dance she's been doing ever since... elementary school? Middle school? Well, it made me happy, and I wasn't depressed anymore about getting just a C even though I tried really fucking hard. It's because I exerted all of my effort memorizing those fucking mammoth formulas instead of also memorizing fucking definitions. It's not fair, I tell you. Math AND definitions and short answers on one test? Fuck that noise. Well, at least everyone else hates the class as much as I do. But seriously, I walk out of that class DRAINED. I have to grab a Subway or something and fill my pitless stomach. Pitless stomach? What does that mean?
Wait. Where was I before that lengthy digression? I just had to scroll up and look. I'm a bad writer. To recap: Icy heart. Melted. Shuttle. Anyway, on the shuttle. To class. A lady with a baby walked onto the shuttle and sat next to me because there were no other seats, and the little 10 month old girl (I know she was 10 months because it's a cursory question you have to ask people who have babies, and I know she was a girl because she was wearing yellow, which is the new green which was the new pink), and aw. She was standing on her momma's lap, in her arms. And then the curious little girl grabbed onto my sleeve and pulled me over because that little girl has been exposed to a Gamma Ray or something. And then she grabbed onto my finger. And then she grabbed onto my face, and I laughed, and the mommy laughed and said, "Ai! No!" and explained to me that she's always doing that. And then she grabbed her mommy's face. Aw. I don't hate babies. I hate parents who bring their kids to fancy eateries and artsy fartsy movies that I want to enjoy without a screaming baby. Babies!
And kitties. I was catching up on my New Yorkers because I've fallen behind, and there was a lovely article on veterinary organ transplants, chemotherapy, et al. It focused on one kitty who was in need of an organ transplant, and I started crying while reading it, thinking about my poor Sammy who has cancer. There were a couple comments on chemo, and I definitely don't want to put him through that. Besides, when he was diagnosed with cancer several months ago, the vets said he wouldn't live for two weeks at month. And look at him now! He has maybe two or three short coughing fits a day, and he's running, and jumping, and killing squirrels the rest of the day. Oh. He has only killed one squirrel, but he supposedly had cancer. I want my boy to fool them all.
I hate boys. The boy I slept with is being weird and calling me and looking at me plaintively in class and distracting me from the lectures. I'm no prize. What does he want? I told him before we got together that I am 100% not looking for a relationship right now, but I didn't tell him why. And I guess he wants to know why. "Oh, I had a passive-aggressive relationship with a sadistic bitch for five years who liked to see me cry, and I was too stupid at that age to realize that I didn't deserve that shit." I guess he could be a nice boy, but he is fresh out of college and straight into the college experience.
Aw. Reverb just ended. Dang. I have no idea what it is, and I don't know why HBO didn't hype it more, and I would've missed it if it wasn't for my one-and-only-true-love TiVo. I love you, TiVo. I am telling my TiVo to replay that show I just watched. I don't have to rewind it or anything! The spark from our initial love affair hasn't faded, we're still so very much in love. Anyhow. Reverb. I guess it was an Icelandic two-for-one deal. I sat down and watched the Bjork part. That was lovely. She's so cute and has such an amazing voice. And no, she isn't garage. I like music that isn't garage, it's just that I grew up with Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, and that opened the door for dirty garage revival music. Then I discovered bands like the Seeds, and I really need to stop it with the mid-paragraph tangents. Bjork had a full traditional Icelandic chorus, and a man shuffling cards, and a cute girl who played the harp and also the accordion which I now am an expert at playing. I had cursory lessons in the accordion from my Russian-Polish grandparents when I was a kid and they were still alive, and I fleshed out my accordion repertoire recently. I'm good. Anyhow, it was entertaining to watch Bjork, and I enjoy listening to Sigur Ros when I like crying to sad, slow shoegazer music instead of country music. They played my favorite song off of the ( ) (that's "parentheses") album. I can't tell you the name of the song or the lyrics because they don't have lyrics. They use vocals as an instrument and let the sounds speak for themselves because they're pretentious like that, though I can tell you that it sounds like the lead singer is singing "it's you-ouuuuuuuuuuu" or something like that. But it's true. They have no stage presence. They gaze at their shoes. Also, the lead singer began to remind me of the boy I slept with. He is a cross between the lead singer of Sigur Ros and Justin Timberlake. Aw. I'm too lazy to open up the character map and check out which characters go where for those crazy Icelandic names. And I'm not going to have that cute little freshman boy infiltrate my brain. Go away, boy, I'm too fucked up for you.
I'm not made of stone. I may be mean to boys, and I may sometimes say that I will never have babies, and I hate babies, and they're annoying, but they're awfully fucking cute. My friend Ferdinand had a baby girl with his wife, and I bought them gifts. Macy's had a sale on Carter's baby clothes, and did you know that yellow is the new green? Green used to be the new pink. I got them some yellow and blue baby girl clothes for when she gets a leetle bit older, and I also got some newborn little smocky outfits. The best thing -- and some of you know my love for ducks and feeding ducks -- was a little tiny terrycloth bib in the shape of a duck's head. The beak -- get this! -- it SQUEAKS! I love it. I wanted to keep it and hang it on my kitty and make it go squeak squeak squeak and drive her crazy. But I didn't. Because that would make me look like a very sad young woman to an outsider. They loved the stuff and thanked me, and I played with their baby who they unfortunately named Valentina. People. Name your children something normal. Not fucking Rumor. I hate Demi Moore. Ferdinand assured me that their flame-point tabby kitties Misha and Mishou will continue to get spoiled rotten.
In other baby news, my icy heart melted a little bit more on the "Hurry 'Cane" shuttle. Yes, my fucking school named the shuttle service the "Hurry 'Cane." My heart isn't completely melted, though. I still want to say elevently-twelve-squillion expletives when I have to hop onto the shuttle in order to get from my psychology classes to my non-psychology classes CLEAR ON THE OTHER SIDE OF CAMPUS. By the way, my psychology statistics course drains me every single time. My zoology class is my favorite course this semester, but statistics is the worst course ever. Possibly worse than that fucktard Betsch and his stupid art history course, and Betsch LIKED me. I think because I could answer his stupid questions correctly when he called on me even though my hand was not raised, but he KNEW I would know it because I stupidly raised my hand and correctly answered a question that did not even have an answer, just a speculative mystery about Egyptian something-or-other. Man, I hated that course. Statistics is just 35 different kinds of suck. But my mom is happy that I got a C+ on the test I was so worried about. I was crying all week long, and screaming, and throwing books and pencils. And I figure I should work myself into such a state whenever I have a test so I don't disappoint my mom. But, hey, I was one point away from a single standard deviation of the mean. I was three points below the mean. I know many others did worse than I did, and the vast majority were unable to finish the test, and it just sucks. But my mom said a C+ for me in this course is like an A+ in any other course. Also, she noted that I get A's in all my other courses with a minimal amount of effort, and that I'm a smart cookie, and then she got on the floor and did her "Laurie got a good grade" kicky-legs dance she's been doing ever since... elementary school? Middle school? Well, it made me happy, and I wasn't depressed anymore about getting just a C even though I tried really fucking hard. It's because I exerted all of my effort memorizing those fucking mammoth formulas instead of also memorizing fucking definitions. It's not fair, I tell you. Math AND definitions and short answers on one test? Fuck that noise. Well, at least everyone else hates the class as much as I do. But seriously, I walk out of that class DRAINED. I have to grab a Subway or something and fill my pitless stomach. Pitless stomach? What does that mean?
Wait. Where was I before that lengthy digression? I just had to scroll up and look. I'm a bad writer. To recap: Icy heart. Melted. Shuttle. Anyway, on the shuttle. To class. A lady with a baby walked onto the shuttle and sat next to me because there were no other seats, and the little 10 month old girl (I know she was 10 months because it's a cursory question you have to ask people who have babies, and I know she was a girl because she was wearing yellow, which is the new green which was the new pink), and aw. She was standing on her momma's lap, in her arms. And then the curious little girl grabbed onto my sleeve and pulled me over because that little girl has been exposed to a Gamma Ray or something. And then she grabbed onto my finger. And then she grabbed onto my face, and I laughed, and the mommy laughed and said, "Ai! No!" and explained to me that she's always doing that. And then she grabbed her mommy's face. Aw. I don't hate babies. I hate parents who bring their kids to fancy eateries and artsy fartsy movies that I want to enjoy without a screaming baby. Babies!
And kitties. I was catching up on my New Yorkers because I've fallen behind, and there was a lovely article on veterinary organ transplants, chemotherapy, et al. It focused on one kitty who was in need of an organ transplant, and I started crying while reading it, thinking about my poor Sammy who has cancer. There were a couple comments on chemo, and I definitely don't want to put him through that. Besides, when he was diagnosed with cancer several months ago, the vets said he wouldn't live for two weeks at month. And look at him now! He has maybe two or three short coughing fits a day, and he's running, and jumping, and killing squirrels the rest of the day. Oh. He has only killed one squirrel, but he supposedly had cancer. I want my boy to fool them all.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
gasoline -- gazz-oh-leen
Washington - Warsh-ing-tun
and he'd probably drink drinks with yerba in them. That's a good yerba, Coach.
[Edited on Oct 04, 2003]