Saturday, December 31, 2011

A Happy New Year Blog Post

Happy New Year, I hope you're all enjoying the number one holiday that is supposed to be much more fun than it actually turns out to be. Although, I did end up enjoying some fireworks to the theme of Star Wars. God Bless America.

Here's a Quimsical Conversation treat to welcome the new year. I should point out for reference that the names Katherine and George will be used in this post, neither of which are our actual names.

"I'm eating pecan pie. Yuuumaaay."

"I could have pecan pie."

"I could have your soul."

"You already do George."

"Oh Katherine...Why'dya have to do these things to me?"

"Because you destroy me!"

"Oh cut your dramatics...your behavior is positively VILE!"

"You torture me George."

"Your very essence tortures me."

"Why must you be so cruel."

"Oh Katherine...Remember the days you would bring me lunch at the library..."

"Because I was a good friend! And now you drag my name through the mud and call me vile."

"You chased me around a house with a gun..." (This actually happened - Nerf gun)

"Only because you did it first! And you shot me! You shot me at least thrice!" (Also happened).

"You beat me to the ground with a candlestick in a small bathroom!" (Happened). "Speechless I see."

"I am sorry it came to blows but YOU GAVE ME NO CHOICE!"


"I can't George, and that's why I hide."

"You hide because you're...a pussy."

"I have one, but is it fair to call me one?"

**Later in the conversation:

"Katy Perry got divored."

"From that psycho Russell Brand?"

"You don't know him, how do you know he's a psycho?"

"Ugh, we dated once. Anywho, I'm going to bed before you come up with another plan to get us killed, or worse, expelled."

"That's my line you asshole."

"It's actually Hermione Granger's or JK Rowling's so..."

"Hey. Fuck you."

"Sweet dreams you lousy fuck."

"I will have bizarre dreams, and you will be jealous of them."

"Will I, Mitchell?"


Friday, December 30, 2011

Goodbye Extensions

Friends, Romans, Blogger followers, lend me your ears (Shakespeare no?). I bring to thee a scenario that some may know well: that goodbye with a good friend that lasts a while longer than any goodbye ever has before it.

Example. This evening I was supposed to leave a rather Quimsical person's home at around six-thirty. I actually departed at eight-thirty. Now we didn't spend all that time goodbying, but I would say we spent a good fifteen minutes. And we did it in accent I thank you.

You see accents are a key component of a long goodbye because in order to extend the goodbye to its full potential you must pretend to be someone else. Someone who leads a much more dramatic life than you do. Someone who has much more at stake when they say goodbye.

Confused? Want to know how to extend your own goodbyes so you leave a full fifteen minutes to half hour later than you're supposed to? I'll give you some tips... because I''m just that generous.

1) Begin in a ridiculous dramatic pose on your car. I like to lay on top of mine with a melodramatic facial expression.

2) Never get in your car and never allow the other person to get in their's. Getting in the car is 75% of the leaving.

3) As said earlier, speak in accent. My accent this evening was a sudo-Catherine Hepburn. These accents should not be spot on either, they're your own personal creation.

4) The goodbye leaves the real world, the reason for your goodbye is no longer the actual reason for your goodbye. Remember, much more dramatic than your actual life.

Just as a disclaimer, other people will probably see you do this, but fret not. You will inevitably see yourself from afar, running about and flinging yourself dramatically on cars, but just know that what you're doing isn't normal but it is fun :)

Happy New Year

Monday, December 26, 2011

A Normal Christmas Conversation

In the post-Christmas spirit, let's play a game of He said, She said. A conversation between none other than the Quimsical Audecdotes pair. To give context, it occured while one of us was watching the cinematic masterpiece of comfort, Julie & Julia. That also may explain why there are some harsh words spoken about Julie Powell, a fellow blogger who we know nothing about besides what we see in Amy Adams' portrayal of her in the film.

This conversation also may serve as an indicator about how easily one can go from talking about a lovely movie to shitting. No? Just us? That's fine...I guess.

Via Text Message. Edited in MLA format, I thank you.

"Oh and I guess Julie [Powell] and her husband are still married."

"Pure bullshite. He is better off without her gingery cunny."

"Maybe he needs a bitch in his life."

"She is the controller of the bedroom."


"Meryl Streep is superb."

"A real goddess."

"She deserves all the Oscars in the world."

"And a pat on the back."


"And a stiff cock."

"I'm UP!"


"Such. A. Large. Shit. I just had. I think I lost weight."

"Oh god, extreme girth?"

Oh yeah, and length. Its like an anaconda."

"Oh sweet myeeryy." (For reference, this should be pronounced how Jimi Hendrix pronounces Mary in his classic song, "The Wind Cries Mary").



"I am...alarmed."

"Did you even need to wipe or was it a messy wipe..."

"It was messy. That's how I found out it was green."

-End of conversation-

Thursday, December 22, 2011

A Terrible Terror

One of my worst fears is someone breaking into my home. That being said, I invite you into my own personal nightmare.

It began innocently enough, my friend and fellow Quimsical Audecdote writer and I getting some Taco Bell to fill our rumbling bellies...actually we might not have even been that hungry we probably just wanted Taco Bell. That trip in it of itself was an ordeal. Me, never quite able to master getting close enough to the drive-through window to get my food comfortably thing. I had parked far too far away and had to get out of the car in order to pay and get my food. A humiliation. It was made worse by the trucker behind me, I remember him as southern for some reason. "Been there," he shouted at me with a breathy hickish laughed. I was-chagrinned.

We arrive at my grandmother's dwelling, we were in her neck of the woods after all, and we hadn't wanted to eat in the car. My grandmother wasn't living at the house anymore, she had already moved into an assisted living community where she was (is) doing quite well I thank you. Now I should have known upon pulling into the driveway that eating at my grandmother's was not in the cards. Having snowed a lot in the past few weeks, my car got stuck in the driveway as I pulled in. No one had been shoveling her driveway it seemed. An omen.

Parked safely on the street outside her home, my companion and I made our way to the backdoor of the house where I had the key. The key I found however, would not be necessary. The backdoor was open. We recoiled, terrified instantly. No one had been at the house in weeks. Sprinting back to the car, I dialed the number to my home, choosing to call my parents before the police.

"Mom!" I said, my voice colored with panic.
"What's wrong?"
"The backdoor to grandma's house is open!"
"Why are you at your grandmother's house."
Embarrassed, "Quin and I wanted to eat our Taco Bell there..." This was an insignificant detail. Who cared what me and my Cheesy Guardita Crunch were doing at Grandma's house? There was an assailant afoot!

Eventually she put my father on the phone. "Get your ass in the house," he told me.

"WHAT! I'm not going in there! There could be someone in there!"
"Then beat their ass! Protect your grandmother's home!"

Feeling like Braveheart, my friend and I walked back to the backdoor as I remained on the phone with my father.
"Should I get a shovel?" Asked my quick witted companion
"Good idea."

We approached the backdoor.
"Do you want me to go first since I have the shovel?"
"Yeah you go first, you have the shovel."
"Jesus Christ," I hear my father say.

We entered the house where I attempted to turn on the lamps. The lamps did not turn on, my thought: "Oh my god! THEY STOLE THE LIGHTBULBS!"

"Check to see if all the silver and appliances are there," my father instructed me. My shovel clad companion and I tiptoed through the house, surveying it for anything missing. There wasn't, but I still had an image of some vagrant/hoodlum descending the staircase mid-break in/squatting session.

The coast was clear it seemed, however did that mean that my companion and I were able to enjoy our Taco Bell in the comfort of my grandmother's home? Definitely not. We sat in my car which was parked directly outside my grandmother's house, our hearts pounding from the perilous danger we had just faced.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


Today, I am finally coming home from college. Having had a very rough week of finals and not a lot of sleep last night, I'm groggy around this time. I honestly believe that naptime should be resurrected from its pre-school sepulchre. Anyway, as the passenger on a not-so-long carride, I begin to get sleepy. My head droops forward as the warm air from the vents caresses me like gentle tendrils. The orchid that is snug and secure, nestled in my crotch, points its flowerless stalks at my face. As my head slowly descends, something magical happens: one aye-aye finger-like orchid stalk runs its bony self through my hair. I am in ecstasy. It's better than a wiry head massager, because it's organic.. But seriously. I continue this delicate dance between man and plant, caressing my face with its waxy stalks. The chills I get are unreal. I have the look of someone who was just given a healthy dose of morphine.

When I finally do open my eyes, I'm brought to the reality that there are cars next to ours and I have been rubbing my face against an orchid for the past 5 minutes. Keeping my pride, I put the orchid back between my legs and act as if nothing has happened.. but I'm longing for its sweet touch once more. It is nice to get closer to nature.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Finals Week

Hello all! If you're a college student, then I'll pose this question to you: How did your finals week start?
Really? Cool. Mine started with a car accident. I don't even know if more needs to be said on that but as you can imagine it sucked. I was the driver. Of someone else's car. I didn't have my license with me. A recipe for disaster one might muse. Nah, not too much disaster just a lot of guilt for crashing the bf's car.

Moving on. A hypothetical situation, of course: You know when you're assigned a paper probably over a week from when it is due? You've been doing the assigned readings for class of the hearty novel Atonement (excellent novel, that Briony is a real cunnilingus though), so, naturally, you expect the essay to be on said novel. You've even been putting tiny yellow post-its in the parts that count because, from past experience, you know it is a real bitch to go back in a book to find the necessary quotes to make a strong paper. All is well in the land.

You finish the novel, feeling a bit depressed, confused and victorious - for you've just killed Briony Tallis by flipping the last page (reaaaally did not like her). Ah, time to get this essay done early, you say, giving yourself a solid two days. You whip out the essay topics, an action that you perform with the utmost distaste. You slowly and superciliously cast your eyes down to the paper once you deem it worthy of your glance. What topic can throw me? you wonder, since, you are a master of Atonement at this point. Hell, you feel like you're the one who got between Cecilia's legs. And then it happens.

What. The. Fack.

Your eyes instantly widen, your mouth slightly agape and nostrils at full flare. You even feel a subtle sheen of sweat begin to condense on your unwavering forehead like water drops on a glass of iced tea that has been left on some old woman's porch for far too long. Unsweetened. You cringe at the thought and slap yourself back into reality. Defining the identity of woman and what it means to be woman during the Great War (WWI - obviously it was not called WWI before WWII). Not the plan... You purse your lips in confused disappointment, set the paper down (still looking at it), walk into the kitchen.. and warm up a s'mores Pop-Tart. It's the only thing that seemed to salvage the situation aside from telling the professor you had somehow lost both of your hands and would not be able to write the essay. The Pop-Tart seemed less dramatic. Of course, this is all hypothetical... -_-

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Luxuriously Linguistic: Don't Fuck With My Brita

Okay. So, this was written last semester around finals week.. I realize now how violent it sounds.. that's my disclaimer. So, don't think I'm a crazy person, please. This is one more post written in the same style as the first Luxuriously Linguistic post. Enjoy.

I violently jostle my key into the ill-fitting lock and twist the door handle with rage. Only the sound of the door slamming open carries through the air as I stare at the back of my roommates’s abhorred, kinky Jew-fro.

My Brita, drier than the savannah, the garbage, more overflowed than weeping eyes.

In one quick second, I snap. Chin in full bottom jut, eyes full of fire and blinded by rage, I “EEEHH” like one who has just had a stiletto driven through his foot, and my roommate jumps in terrified response. He squints and covers his face as I scream my most uncensored insults and simultaneously screech like an eagle, and make the face of the fat girl on Glee when she pretends to be a vampire.

Like lightning, my arms are shot at his head and my clawed and bloody hands dig into his scalp, ripping out sand-dry, frizzy curls as they clench. He screams like that of a girl without a parpouse (Irish accent) and stands up to make an attempted escape.

My hands still in his hair as he tries to run, he immediately falls down and his head is jerked back violently. Instantly, I am upon him. His face is simply disgusting. With one last EEHH I slam his head into the wall. He let’s out a freakish grunt like a wild boar and his head recoils from the wall, bouncing off it in a nasty whiplash.

His unconscious body is limp as a whet noodle. Frothing from my mouth I throw his stale cheerios and almonds on his face and jump out of my first floor window, glass shattering in an icy tail of escape.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

There Comes a Point

Anyone else travel this Thanksgiving weekend? Anyone else get stuck in absolutely abominable traffic? Yes? Well then you may relate. There comes a time in every traveler's life as they're in stop and go traffic, going under ten miles an hour when the speed limit is 65, watching their time of arrival on their Garmin gradually get later and later, as the outside grows darker and darker, and rain pours more and more miserably when...

1) You begin yelling, knowing full well that no one even heres you. Mostly you target that one speedy car that switched lanes really quickly (you declare then a dumbass but really you're just jealous that they're probably going to reach their destination faster than you) or the car right ahead of yours, choosing to blame them for your current predicament.

2) You flip radio stations with increasing irritation

3) You consider not covering the toilet seat at the Wendy's where you know at least 100 women have peed before you but you have to pee so badly and have been waiting so long you don't care.

4) You can't seem to play Hey Ya! by Outcast loud enough

5) You develop a personal vendetta against Let it Snow! and White Christmas

6) You worry your stomach will reject the Wendy's you've just scarfed down in the car, having dripped something on your t-shirt

7) You make an odd sound of delight when Lose Yourself by Eminem comes on the radio, turning it up to nearly as loud as it will go immediately.

8) You contemplate what you would do if you had a bomb (a lot of people would have died man)

9) You slow to a stop inexplicably at a green light and then get mad when someone behind you honks at your stupidity

10) You contemplate if you were wearing a feminine napkin, could you just pee in the car (God no...maybe?)

Essentially you grow to hate yourself, and everyone around you. Hopefully everyone has a safe and happy holiday season. Unless you were one of those people stuck in traffic with me, then I hope you die (especially you Lexus, random SUV, and Mr. S4AG)

Friday, November 25, 2011

That Moment When You're Too Drunk In Front of Your Parents

Thanksgiving greetings!

I would first like to say for good measure that just because someone gets heavily intoxicated during Thanksgiving does not mean that they have a drinking problem. Got it? Good.

Vodka is clearly not my friend, I've thrown up twice in my drinking life and both times have been to this particular strain of satan's nectar. I would have been fine if I'd just stuck with the wine all night, maybe a little hungover, but certainly nothing to write home about. However there comes a point in every drunken night where you make choices that seem perfectly logical at the time when, in fact, a small part of you is saying: that's not intelligent. Me telling someone that I was sick of wine and wanted a drink with liquor is an example of such a choice. A choice that lead to my heavy intoxication.

We'll fast-forward to the drive home where I was chiming in on the conversation of my family a little louder than I needed too, with a healthy awareness that I was quite drunk and needed to keep it under wraps. That didn't go too well since, at about the moment I got home, I began to throw up. It's an odd thing, throwing up when you're drunk - it doesn't happen like throwing up when you're sick. There's no prelude of saliva filling your mouth in the most unpleasant way. It's more innate than that; your body just knows.

After finally going to sleep I woke up hours later to find myself cradling a cup of water, a trash can, and a towel. I don't know what the towel was for, I spilled the cup of water all over myself while asleep and I think I also might have poured it in the trash can somehow. There's a liquid in there and it's not vomit....I wondered why my mother allowed me to keep such items with me while I slept; obviously, I was going to spill water all over myself and sheets. However, she later informed me that I refused to relinquish said items...great.

You wake up and look at yourself in the mirror, your smudged make up and eyes that have been through a lot stare back at you accusatorially. Your pearls from the night before are laid delicately on your dresser, you didn't take them off yourself, there's no way you could have dealt with that clasp. You have a healthy awareness of the symbolism of having your pearls removed from your neck. Your dress is in a heap next to your tights - that's a mystery. And you just look at your life, look at your choices and think: fuck, now my parents know how hard I can party.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Tinker Bitch

I will preface this by saying that I know Halloween was a week ago. However, this story is just too important to not tell... maybe even life changing.

I'll start with this: What do you get when you put Peter Pan, some chinchilla-like man creature, a demon boy screaming until his throat practically bleeds, Tinker Bell, a pirate, a banana and Zombie Jesus in one bar at one metal concert?

You get the most violent clusterfuck of misfit personalities ever.


So, here is Zombie Jesus posing with one of my good friends, actually. When I say never, I mean never in the most never-est sense imaginable. Never as in, I will never fly on the back of a pterodactyl #impossible #extinction #asecretwishofmine... Anyway, I have NEVER seen anyone headbang so god damn hard. I fear that his vigor may have caused him the severest whiplash. It looked like his hair kept repeatedly angrily slapping his eyes. Clearly, as suggested by that maniacal smile he is sporting, he did not care. Who knows if that blood is prop or his.. or someone else's. Either way, this guy insisted on posing as if crucified for the picture I took, which I saw as somehow insulting but really humorous.

My next comment is the way people "dance" - if that is what you call recklessly flailing your limbs in an attempt to cause physical damage to the person next to you. Tinker Bell. Fucking Tinker Bell with a spikey, sweat drenched, botched do and a less than flattering figure was "dancing." Little bitch was trying so hard to bludgeon someone. She didn't think I was watching but, oh I was. This biddy would have her arms up like she was gonna do the chicken dance and jerkily thrust her tinker fairy vagina forward. Harmless right? No. Then she would look over her shoulder and throw a chubby elbow back with an audible grunt.

Jesus, poor zombie Jesus.. I saw Tinker Bell look him in the eyes while she stood still in a sea of raging, flailing skelton sluts and fat-belly dancers. She punched Jesus in the face! Punched him hard, too! He recoiled, out of pain, I assume. Tinker Bell remedied the situation, supposedly, by running up to him and giving him a (most likely diseased) kiss on the cheek. All was well again and Tinker Bell kept throwing her elbows to the sweet sounds of Peter Pan and Captain Hook playing their guitars on stage.

I had some moron spill beer on me. What happened next is too violent too share... just kidding.. I'm not that bad-ass. But! I did survive a metal concert. My first one, in fact, and that I will hold on to for a long time because I never plan on going back.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Leprosy in the Student Health Center

Being sick is a terrible thing, it's you at your weakest point. The only nice thing about being sick when you're younger is that you get to blow off school, are pitied heavily by your mother, and get to watch many, many movies and bad TV shows (nothing good was ever on during the day). College makes being sick a fucking nightmare. You run the risk of missing class, your mother isn't there, and everyone treats you like a leper, afraid to even come near you. In some cases they even threaten violence against you if you accidentally get them sick (we can't help that! We didn't ask for this to happen). Not to mention the anxiety that's involved with illness in college. If you have a cough for example, you're up half the night hacking up a lung and that might also mean that your roommate(s) are up with you, killing you silently with their thoughts. No one wants to feel like they're being quietly murdered. If I am to be murdered I would like to know about it please, and be given the chance to attempt to open a can of whoop ass (I'll kill you future attacker).

Eventually when sick however you might break down and call your health center, hoping desperately that they can fix you. This is already an undesirable thing since nobody wants to go to a doctor that's not their own. Personally, I love my doctor, she knows how I get sick and knows just what to give me to make me a happy camper (aka knock-out drugs. This will be the first time that I assure you I am not a drug addict).

So you call the health center hoping to schedule an appointment for that day, there is a very loud static making it grating to hold the phone up to you ear, which is obviously a problem because you then don't hear when the woman answers the phone. The woman asks you your symptoms in an annoyed, loud tone since you have to ask her to repeat herself four times. You can't say that you're simply calling so that you can get the doctor to give you a prescription (again, not an addict. I simply prefer to be properly sedated when ill). You give the run of the mill symptoms of a cold, I have a cough, it's dry, up all night. You give this with slight annoyance since you know that you'll be asked again by the nurse and the doctors. Why do the receptionists ask you when you're going to be asked again? Is there no inter-office communication? I feel as though that should be rectified. Finally, you hang up with the receptionist after being threatened that if you're late to your appointment, you'll be fined, and you haul ass across campus to the medical center.

At the check-in desk (almost always run by a sour, 60 year old toad-woman, or an ambiguously gay man) you give your ID, and verify your birthday. If you're going to the health center you had damn well better know your birthday in the shortest, most concise way possible. You will be asked at least 7 times to repeat it as if everyone working in the health center expects that you are an impostor, searching for that high of being weighed, poked and prodded. If you have a cough, you will also be given a mask to wear while you wait. The most degrading of all regulations. I refuse to wear said mask since I am not, in fact, an Asian, worried about catching bird flu or whatever weird strain of disease that's circulating in their countries; and because I can think of few fates more horrible than coughing and having it reverberate back onto your face. Tell me how that's sanitary.

You sit in a region of the waiting area wanting to be as secluded as possible, hesitating to make friends with the other people around you lest they have a disease more terrible than yours. If you look around, you'll notice that there is always that one person who looks near death. A mopey, miserable expression on the person's wan/beat red (it's always one or the other) face. You wonder what they're dying of and inch away from them as best you can. If your health center is like mine, there is a separate area for the near death patients, hoping to keep these animals away from the regular folk who have mere colds.

I will digress a moment to paint a different scenario for you: the urine sample. Men, I don't want to hear none of your bitchin' (yes I was hick for just a second, forgiveness please). You're predisposed to be able to aim your piddle (I hope you cringed reading that word, as I cringed typing it). Women, however, are not able to aim, not to mention you're supposed to catch your pee midstream. I don't follow this rule, unwilling to take this chance.

Peeing in a cup is an anxiety-ridden experience; you never know how much you will pee when you're forced to sit down and catch it in a cup. God forbid it should be a lighter pee and it runs down the base of your ass instead of coming out in a stream, or you misplace this cup, causing you to not only have piss all over your hand, but have no pee in the cup to submit for analyzation. You're forced to remain in the bathroom until you have something to give these waiting nurses, who are, no doubt, judging you from just outside the bathroom. You run water, try to ineptly drink out of the faucet, pushing from your mind how unsanitary that is. You simply CANNOT emerge from the porcelain throne without a warm plastic cup of your own piss...

Back to a normal visit, you're called by a gruff nurse. Why are all nurses gruff? Why can't any of them be sweet and understanding of your weakened state? They are, instead, impatient as fuck as you ineptly remove your shoes to be weighed, juggling the various items you've brought with you. You're always weighed when you go to the doctor, something I will never understand. If I have the flu/bronchitis who gives a rat's ass how fat I've gotten in this Halloween season (DONT JUDGE ME). Now that I think about it, it's probably to get the dosage of my medication right but IT'S STILL UNJUST! The nurses then verify your birthday (gotta keep out those imposters), ask you a series of questions (few of which have to do with your current symptoms), take your temperature with the latest space-aged thermometer, and send you back into the waiting room. Here, you seem to enter a paradox: there are magazines but they are all either obscure or at the very least 8 years old. Why is it that doctor's offices can never get recent or popular magazines? Is the doctor's office some sort of black hole for popular culture?

So, you're reading a magazine with an article about Kelly Clarkson winning American Idol when the doctor finally calls you in. Finally, you're going to be with the person who can get you drugs (not a drug addict), you're even willing to retell him/her your symptoms because you know he/she controls the prescription pad (not an addict). The thing that I find most interesting about this portion of the visit, however, is that doctors seem very concerned with assuring you that they are not in fact molesting you; they are doing their job. "I'm going to listen to your lungs under your shirt but I'm going to keep it covered," they assure me. I'm always okay with this, thinking in my head, you've gone to med. school sir/ma'am you may, in fact, put your stethoscope up my shirt without causing me to yell RAPE! As long as I see your credentials hung up on the wall and there are no weird, lingering touches, we're all set, my friend.

If you're lucky you'll get the drugs you wanted and get to skip down to the pharmacy with your slip for a controlled substance in hand. However, there brings your next challenge. If you're like me, you operate on your parent's health insurance and never really thought about going to the doctor. However for some reason, pharmacists are reluctant to give you your medication when they have issues figuring out what your insurance coverage is. This is always a stressful experience: the pharmacist telling you you don't have coverage when you know that you do, in fact, have coverage. You consider asking the pharmacist to just give you the medication, however, knowing that they will regard you harshly, you allow them to retreat to the back to call your insurance company. Your insurance company will then inform the jolly yet unrelenting pharmacist that, surprise! they changed your ID number without telling your family. Those rascals! You may then stumble out of the health center hours later, feeling the wind and fresh, unsullied air upon your face; optimistic about the coming days that will hopefully bring you health.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Confessions of a Quidditch Wannabe

I was walking to class when I noticed people running without any clear pattern in the middle of the Quad. As I got closer, it became evident that these people were on different teams. One wore orange and one wore white. Brooms. Brooms with shafts disproportionate to their stubby bristles. Shafts wagging like a happy dog who is seizing, nestled cozily in these Quad-goers crotches. In fact, happy and seizing is the only way I can describe their expressions. I checked Twitter only to find out that there had been a flash mob organized.

Quidditch is the name of the game and these players looked like damn fools.

I can't express how badly I want to be one of those damn fools.

As I walked past the 'pitch' my heart started a little. My eyes couldn't be torn away from the beautiful work of kinetic art before me. Desperate girls wearing leggings under gym shorts grunted as they hurled red rubber dodge balls at the unsuspecting opposition. In a desperate attempt to keep the awkward broom between their legs (is this subliminal training?), many lost their footing and tumbled to a glorious mud-covered defeat, head bouncing in recoil from the shock. The more mud, the harder she goes.

As if resolving to start a new chapter in life, she gets up with the fervor of a freshly whipped stallion and charges onward toward the iconic three-ring goal posts..

I'm serious, I wanted to be on that pitch. I feel so British when I say pitch. I know I would be good. I'm stealthy and lanky. I could avoid the clusterfuck of 6 different men swatting at one ball while clenching their legs together to keep the broom from falling. Inevitably their bent knees and jutting-out assess make it look like they're taking a group shit. Beautiful.

The keeper, with his striped knee-high socks and bouncy, curly locks (that's some Dr. Seuss rhyme shit) angrily swats away the opposition. His teeth bared in a hard grimace, he defends his poorly constructed three ring posts like a boss. I've never seen such dedication as he runs from his end of the pitch all the way to the other, untouched by groping hands along the way, and spikes the shit out of a rubber ball, missing.

Quidditch is, no doubt, going to be the next great American sport. The blood that runs through these broom-straddler's veins is unrivaled by that of football players, marathoners, gymnasts, bull riders, midget tossers and the like. Their sweat and tears will forever stain the quad.

I can only hope, one day, that my own perspiration will make its mark on Quidditch fields around the world. That one day I will run furiously with a rigid broom between my legs and scream in glory at my successes but later go home to apply vast amounts of baby powder to my raw, chafed crotch. That'll be the day when I can call myself a true champion.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Perils of a Library Goer

College is an intense place full of homework, obligations, and most importantly, distractions. That's what generally brings frustrated undergrads to the library. It's a good, quiet place to study because everyone's studying or doing school related things. No one is going to ask you to go get frozen yogurt at the library unless they seriously don't understand what the library is for. Granted it's full of Asians (whom you're sure are talking about you in their native tongues), people talking to themselves when it gets closer to midterms and finals as they start to lose their sanity a little, and then, of course, there are those people who you want to drop kick down the stairs because they have the audacity to answer their phone in a study area. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!? However, it's generally a good place to lock yourself into for a few hours and get some much needed work done.

That's what brought me to my favorite library on campus the other day, and that's what started my whole perilous day of perils.

Peril Number One: finding that your favorite place to study is being occupied by some sort of expo. Everyone has a favorite study spot at the library, whether you like to lock yourself in one of those horrifying, solitary confinement study rooms, or if you like to park yourself in a large reading room populated with a demographic that is roughly 50% Asian and 50% not Asian. Finding out that your favorite spot to study is unavailable is annoying. You feel that you work best in that environment and when it's unavailable you find yourself in a bit of an identity crisis: can I study somewhere else? Should I just go now?

If you're like me, you like the reading rooms and you like the more relaxed of the two study rooms your library offers. It has large windows so, when you get bored, you can look out the window and try to figure out where the people walking around campus are going. Also there's a fair amount of space between you and your neighbors- everyone generally keeping to the movie theater rule (leaving a seat between other seats). The study room I ended up in, however, was the more intense of the two.

Problem: it's SILENT and echos like a mofo. This is a stressful feeling in a study room. It causes paranoia as you wonder if others can hear the Prince music your'e jamming out to or you chewing your Garden Salsa Sun Chips (deliciousness).
Problem: you're a lot closer to the people around you, making it uncomfortable when one of your neighbors stares off into space mouthing words to themselves, or the Asian girl across from you gives her Asian guy friend dirty looks for not being able to figure out the math homework that looks like it was written in Sanskrit it's so above the math you've ever seen.

Peril Number Two: arriving at the library without all the necessary materials for studying. That is literally the most annoying thing that could ever happen to a human being, especially when you live off campus. It immediately spirals you into a terrible dilemma: you can either pretend you didn't forget the shit you need to do the assignment you wanted to do and pretend that you want to do another less important assignment, or you can leave the undoubtedly great location you got for your studying endeavors and pick up your shit.
Peril Number Three: Witnessing a member of the cleaning staff vomit on the stairs he was cleaning. This experience is hopefully not so common for everyone. I pray to every deity that I never hear anyone say,

"you know when you're walking down the steps of the library to get a snack and some caffeine and you see the the cleaning guy sweeping the stairs and start to mentally prepare to slip by him without having to engage in any kind of communication?"


"Oh good, yeah and then you notice that the sweeping guy has a kind of frown on his face and makes some odd coughing sounds, and you wonder if there's something kind of wrong with him?"


"Yeah, and then he vomits on the stairs you're going down, and you're just frozen in horror."

"YES! Happens to me all the time!"

"Oh god, and then he gives you a slightly rueful smile suggesting that you guys are in this together and you're like FUCK THAT, as he slides to the side of the step and gently sweeps up the small puddle of orange vomit that just poured out of his mouth. You slide by, eyes wide with horror, unable to shake the image from your mind as you go buy your Sun Chips and Diet Coke?"

"Yeah! Happened to me last time I was at the library!"

That would easily be the most disturbing thing to happen to people all the time and, not to mention, a serious reflection on who library management hires to sweep its stairs. Why are their employees throwing up orange vomit on a regular basis? Do they keep Tang in the break room instead of coffee?

I would also like to point out for good measure that I am not a racist. I have no problem with Asians and their computers that America has never seen before. I kid you not a kid two seats away from me was using a computer the size of a large flip of calculator; it was probably a 3 by 4 screen. Their overwhelming presence in the library is pure fact.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

The Psychology of Overemotionality

When you're overemotional (like myself) life can be a pretty tough road. Full of: "are you kidding me right nows" and odd avoidance stares. I'm the girl who cried during Lilo and Stitch, the friend that tears up watching Bride Wars by herself, the girl who chokes up continually throughout The Blind Side (that mother was just SUCH a nice woman...she changed his life -- you know what, I can't even think about it).

Today, I was the girl who started to get choked up during Father of the Bride at the gym. Talk about an odd combination and an inappropriate place to have your eyes misting with tears as your forehead and lower back become a sheen of sweat. Essentially, I was a liquid organism today. Anyway, if you're also one of these highly emotional creatures, don't worry, you're not alone in the world. There are plenty of other people who start to cry when they get angry (the worst: it ruins your arguments, and freaks out your dad), cry over-zealously during movies, and experience various other hyper emotional reactions to life situations.

How to deal with this condition is a slippery slope because no one likes criers. Let's face it, they're ugly, puffy faced, snot machines (I can say this because I'm one of them), and it's not in anyone's best interest to spend all of his or her time watching in horror as someone has an emotional breakdown over the death of a Harry Potter character. You have to be able to take care of yourself. Methods include:

One: watch movies with plenty of tissues. No one likes a mucus sniffer.

Two: if you haven't cried naturally in a while, watch a sad movie ASAP! You are allowing your body to build up with emotions. You're a nuclear bomb that's going to see a dog nuzzling another dog's nose and start sobbing in response to it. This is also how you end up crying during Bride Wars. They were such good friends, they should have been in each other's wedding!

Three: If you're watching a movie with people you're still trying to impress (Note: this does not have to be a potential suitor. It's a known fact that people try to impress potential friends just as much as suitors. Friends could be in your life longer and have more of a probability of teasing you heavily for years to come) try not to go for a sad movie that you haven't seen right off the bat. The overemotional population knows that half of the 'crying jag' you'll erupt into is the shock of what's happening. If you know that the love of the protagonist's life is going to die ahead of time, you might save yourself some embarrassment.

Overemotionality is a serious but treatable disorder. You are not alone. It doesn't get better, it just gets manageable.

Side effects may include: loss of friends, dizzy while standing, blood clots, serious but rarely fatal heart attacks, excess mucus, belligerent teasing, stroke, and loss of fertility.

Friday, October 7, 2011

Lav. is a Battlefield

Nobody likes to shit in public. It's awkward and terrifying especially when you're already nervous about it and it happens to play out like this:

You're prairie dogging, turtle heading, checking the scene, whatever. You ALL know what I'm talking about. Not only is the animal inside of you ready to jump out, feral and bearing its claws and wild eyes. You also don't know how much longer you can keep the sure-to-be inundating waterfall of urine from leaking out and creating some sort of self-incriminating Rorshach test on your crotch that people will only interpret in one way: he pissed himself.

Frantically, (but coolly, too, so people don't know your struggle) you walk into the bathroom. The next step can be the determining factor of whether your life ends there in a less-than-epic blaze of glory or whether you get to continue your mission. You check to see if anyone is at the urinal. If yes, you immediately turn around, walk out and hopefully find some trash can that you can empty your vengeful bowels into as opposed to in your pants and keep some semblance of dignity.

If you see no one at the urinals, proceed. If you see feet dangling, indicating someone else has just completed the same mission, proceed. This often comes with a sense of comradery... or heightened angst and discomfort as nobody enjoys hearing the cacophony of someone else's asshole.

Finally, with great relief, you enter the stall... ONLY TO FIND IT HORRIBLY DEFILED:

Who would do such a thing to the porcelain throne?? If this happens, end your journey. Don't you ever try to mend this situation. It will only lead to regret, discomfort, and pink eye.

Let's say you make it. Your clammy swollen fingers fumble with the toilet paper as you attempt to rip the right amount to use as a seat cover - all the while fighting the urge to piss yourself. Pants down, cheek to toilet contact is about to occur when one of the pieces of toilet paper slips and falls in!! You silently - as to not disturb your bathroommate - curse the heavens and shake an angry fist. Once again you clumsily rip a piece of toilet paper, this time too short. Fuck it. You sit down.

Finally, it's happening. It's really happening and all of your dreams have come true! Your bathroommate ends his journey with a toilet-amplified fart and exits. Your body is able to relax and just when everything in the world seems right, you look up only to notice that there is another person there.

What the fuck?!? Your alarm that is the opening of the bathroom door never sounded. Bastard must have sneaked in while your bathroommate left. He approaches. Performing the most vile faux pas, he peers into your stall - for just a little bit too long.. An innocent maneuver of checking to see if the stall was occupied, you're sure, but you accuse him of more dastardly things. Eyes widened and mouth set in a stern line, you stoically continue.

Finally, the end. Your bend over to pull your pants up and at that moment, a noise sends chills up your spine. The noise of an automatic flush. A flush that is all too violent. Panicking, hands still on the waste band of your pants, still bent over, you shimmy away so that your ass doesn't get sprayed by the vortex. You've gone too far in attempting to avoid the maelstrom of shitty water and your bare, supple cheek bumps into the cool stone wall. Eyes widened in shock and face turned toward the toilet (who thought it would be a good idea to turn your face toward a toilet to protect your ass), one lone particle of water lands in your welcoming eye in dramatic slow motion, of course.

Nothing in your life has ever been more stressful. You even feel like you might need to wipe again...

You leave, a seasoned veteran of the unrelenting obstacles that go hand-in-hand with public restrooms. Strutting with a purpose and head held high, you feel confident in confronting the same challenge tomorrow.. but mostly you're scared shitless for your itchy eye.

Flirting Methods of the Chronically Awkward

My life is a Drew Barrymoore movie, and not even a cool one like ET or Charlie's Angels. I'm no badass nor precocious child who teaches a lovable alien to speak. What I am is an awkward flirter who overestimates her connections to men in a going out situation. Once, after declaring a guy looked like Rob Pattinson a friend asked, did you get his digits? (they didn't say these words exactly since it's not 1998 but you get the point). I said no, but I declared proudly that we exchanged names. Upon seeing him again, I was even prouder that I waved to him and smiled. He did not remember me (gasp).

Tonight was a similar night, though possibly more successful. Ladies (and men I suppose), you know what I mean when I say there's always one person you have your eye on all night; one person who you want to grind to an Usher song to, or better Swing by Savage.

If you have my brain (odd but possible), you dance with your friends but stick your butt out thinking that that's a sign that you're willing to dance. You give them small smiles from over your shoulder. You keep your hair down even though you're sweating so he can see your lustrous locks. If you're even more like me, that person is rarely the person you end up hanging out with.

On this particular night, I had my eye on the DJ (the forbidden fruit). While requesting I Just Had Sex by The Lonely Island, I made my move.

"'I Just Had Sex', please," I said to him.

Having already requested, successfully, I'm on a Boat, DJ boy laughed and said, "Really?"

I smiled broadly at him and said, "Yes!" He grinned back and something took over my body and I winked at him, scurrying away before I could see his reaction.

Having been successful in all my requests previously, I later decided to both test DJ boy and get a song that would make me very happy: Larger Than Life by the Backstreet Boys (represent). He shook his head though a smile remained on his lips. My response was, "Come on, you know you want it." He replied that he, in fact, didn't. I reasoned that he could mix techno but he was unconvinced and time went by with no Backstreet Boys coloring the "club" that I was occupying.

When a country song came on I stomped back over to him, demanding Backstreet Boys, pouting in a way I thought could be flirtatious. "What do I have to do," I asked him, to which he replied that he didn't even have the song. I told him that he had broken my heart.

Later on in the evening he made amends however, playing Living on a Prayer for me to, in my words, "make up for his grievous offenses against me." And when he emerged from his DJ place of forbiddeness, he gave me a strong high five (important because when you're naturally a strong high fiver, you tend to alarm most people with your vigor).

Essentially, he is the love of my life (for the night). Did I leave with his digits or even his name?
No, no I did not. Because it is not my place to be forward. I don't know that lifestyle. Can I know that lifestyle? I suppose only if Drew Barrymoore learned it in her films. If not, I'm Elliot when ET begins to grow ill, and by that I mean all blue and mumbling things about an Extra Terrestrial being that show that I don't have my priorities in order.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Luxuirously Linguistic, Don't You Think?

We have have really sick senses of humor, as you'll come to understand with more and more posts.

What we want to deliver to you, so delicately peppered throughout our postings as they are sacred pieces of literature, is what we call our "scenarios." These types of stories are on-the-spot and happen to grow out of something as simple as a glance or a question. For some reason, they have always been text messaged back and forth in novel-like language.

In this case, this whole scenario is in response to the statement: "You should just rage slap her."

Bet you're biting your nails. Ready? Here you go:

Just picture me screaming with rage and barreling out of my chair, throwing it violently to the side. She turns in slight alarm flinching at my bright face. Eyes of fire. Mouth foaming white. 

Too late, I am upon her, ripping her from her chair. She yelps slightly in fear and pain. I growl something incomprehensible in my rage. I drag her to the center of the room as she scurries away.

I scream as if I’m a harpy clenching my hands into claws as I scratch at her back and trip her. She scrambles to her feet. Eyes watering. Face scrunched in confused fear. I bare my teeth my mouth still foaming and wind up, my whole body swinging. 

Thrusting my body upward as if I were hurling a shot put, I bring the force of my palm against her disgusting cheek. She screams in pain and her cheek flashes bright red in the shape of my angry palm. 

Simultaneously she involuntarily twists almost 180 degrees and falls to the ground... 

Panting, my body hunched over, I throw the door open and run haggardly away.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

And We Have Liftoff

Blog is officially active. What is it about you ask? I'll tell ya.

Quimsical Audecdotes was created so that satiric commentary on life and personal experiences of the authors that are humiliating, hilarious, awkward or otherwise just plain story-worthy are able to be shared! Too often, I find myself laughing to the point of abdominal workout in the middle of a lecture, gaining quizzical glances in my direction, because of a text I have received that depicted my friend's recent misadventure.

All I want to do is share these stories so that maybe you'll be that kid in lecture laughing silently (but oh, so not silently) in response to something that no one else has the pleasure of sharing in.

I'm flapping my wings, trying to get this blog to fly. Hopefully, I end up better off than this dead bird.