Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
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
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
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
Friday, November 25, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
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
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...
Friday, October 21, 2011
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
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.
"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?"
Saturday, October 8, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, October 7, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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).
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
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.