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?"

"Yeah?"

"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!'

"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.