Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Stress Continued

I posted previously about my stresses, one of which manifested itself like a dormant alien baby come to life inside of me, punching, kicking, scratching, and swearing in an extra-terrestrial language I can't understand (no one likes being left out of a conversation). This particular stress is associated with my future and how study abroad may or may not fuck up my life. It went a little like this:

Me, 2:00 p.m.:

"Yep! I'm going to my adviser's office today to figure things out, I'm sure it will all work out."

Later in the Day:

Adviser - "Well, it's definitely a tricky one!" (makes some sort of motion like she is going to give me a playful punch) "Your next step is to make a meeting with your department chair, he can help you organize the rest of your semesters here."

At this point, I'm feeling only slightly less optimistic due to her confused look when I asked her how I should plan my semesters in order to graduate on time. Summer classes might be an option. (In my mind, there is still that stigma of the delinquents in my high school associated with summer school).

Me: "Hi, I need to make an appointment with my department chair."

Oompa Loompa-like woman: "Huh, his door is closed."

Me: "Okay, well is he inside? I need to know because I still have to apply for abroad and the application is due soon."

Oompa Loompa: "Well, I mean, the door is closed.. I.." she said, like I have asked her to summon the devil and send him to heaven, making the task of knocking on a fucking door seem an impossible task. She holds her hands out to her side like she is balancing two serving trays, shaking her head from side to side.

Me: Okay. Well, I'll just come back another time then.

Now, I was pretty pissed off. All I needed was a signature from him to confirm one thing and a nice meeting to figure out some other shit. I decided that I would attempt my other adviser. He was not in his room. So, I made my way over to Arts & Sciences to see if I could get the head of the French department's signature for my minor form.

Such a beautiful woman. She sports the latest in mullet trends, peppered mousy-brown hair of course, has a ski slope nose that ends in a nice sharp point and, atop that nose, round, silver glasses that frame her black beady eyes. Her stature is that of a Hobbit, and, though I've never seen her feet, I'm assuming they are also Hobbit-like. She...

photo source from

was also not in her room.

By now, I had walked between three different departments in a horrific slush that my boat-shoes betrayed me in. I would say I have almost broken BOTH of my legs at least seven times today.

I walk into the student dining center, not even a dining hall, so I am forced to use money instead of a meal swipe. Immediately, I see some sad-looking Mexican man making quesadilla. YES. I trudge over to him and order in staccato: Veggie. Everything. Sour Cream? Yes. Salsa? Yes. For here or to go? GO.

Once I have the hot, slightly B.O. - smelling quesadilla in my hands, life seems a little brighter. While waiting in line, I notice a basket. A glorious basket filled with cookies, however, these cookies are anything but ordinary. They're literally seven or eight inches across...

Me, 3:30 p.m.:

Can I handle that fucking cookie??

Yes. Yes I can handle that fucking cookie.

I snatched it from the basket, I think I scared some of the people around me. And since you all know what happened after I bought that cookie, I will end the post like this:

Perils of Blog Posting

I apologize if this post seems scatterbrained but I'm currently surrounded by entirely too much external stimuli.  60 degree weather in February, a plethora of men wearing salmon or pastel colored shorts above the knee, Irish rock's a lot.  Alas, I wish to share my internet troubles.

I've always prided myself as being internet savvy...or at least being better at internet navigation than my mother.  However Steve Jobs dead is probably better at interent navigation than my mother. Blogging is an entirely new can of worms that I can't seem to pry open.  Thank goodness I'm merely a co-author and not the logistical runner of this blog otherwise god knows the shambles it would be in.

Speaking of co-authorship, it seems that I am not privy to many of the features that my partner is.  According to him we have international views (Hi in your native language guys!).  Huh, news to me. I also have begun following cool blogs, however when one follows the wrong blog what does one do? The answer: I have no effing idea.

Here's a recent conversation my companion and I had about blogging:
p.s. there's mention of a blog, Pea Soup, it's run by my co-author Quimsical, you should definitely check it out! I just don't know where to find it because evidently I'm following the wrong one...

    • Quimsical: I think you're following the wrong pea soup lol unless you wanted to follow a different pea soup 
    • understandable

      Audecdote: I am following the wrong pea soup. I don't know how to unfollow

      Quimsical: lmao. I will help you with that at a later date

      Audecdote: Blogging is far too complicated for me. I post. I get out. 

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Ruffian in the Taco Bell

I think it's quite clear that Taco Bell is one of the essential food groups of the prototypical college student. It is also quite apparent that a Taco Bell franchise has little to no standards when doing their hiring. Though, to be fair, what self respecting person wants to work in a Taco Bell? What happens, however, when the Taco Bell you and your comrades frequent becomes a taboo to you (rhyme)?

The trip began innocently enough, blasting some beats, prime parking space, the cashier did not become skeptical when I ordered my Cheesy Gourdita Crunch (oh it's happened before). The ice machine at this particular T-Bell hasn't been working all year and I didn't even have to remind them to get me ice from the back (you don't question it). However, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something afoot. A black man, wearing clothes that were entirely too large for him and a large rimmed baseball cap, was creeping all up on my friend. He smiles at her, his leering gaze lingering on her lady parts before opening his mouth to say, "Hey, sexy, you got a pen?"

A few problems here. One, grammatically this is wrong. It should have been, "hey, sexy, do you have a pen," and if he were a gentleman he might have added a please somewhere in there. Two, why does he need a pen? He's in a Taco Bell! And three, if he needed to borrow a pen, calling her sexy probably wasn't a great word choice. Miss, or even lady might have been better. Okay, and then I have to add the fourth, HE HAD A SMALL CHILD WITH HIM. A daughter, I assumed. Someone clearly never told this man that a Taco Bell with your child was NOT the place to pick up a lady. I mean, honestly.

My friend handled the situation with great grace and poise, "Oh, no, I'm sorry," she said with a broad smile, edging away from him, her voice betraying only the slightest bit of panic. He left her be as she waited for her food. I joined her momentarily, hysterical with giggles. She only shook her head declaring, "we're not leaving until he does." I glance to the door and find him waiting in the entry way of the restaurant, again leering at my friend. Gross.

"Order 199," I hear the her-whole-life-smoker wheeze from the counter. Retrieving my food did not mean that we were in the clear. The pen-needer was still lingering outside the Taco Bell. Eventually, he seemed to get the message that my friend was not, in fact, going to give him a pen and rounded the corner, heading to the bus stop, his small child in tow. My two friends and I were then able to leave the establishment in piece, our warm "Mexican food" in tow.

Monday, February 27, 2012


And so the week has begun and, along with it, the incredible stresses of an over-achieving undergraduate. I don't like to complain because I know there are people much worse-off than myself (my prayers go out to you starving children in third-world countries, blind people, old cat ladies, and the like), however, in my little bubble of a world, things are pretty rough. Three tests this week, a project due Thursday, homework for 18 credits worth of classes, practicing prayers to read at my sister's wedding, preparing a speech for my sister's wedding, my sister's wedding itself (this weekend), applying for study abroad, asking for recommendations for that study abroad, aaaaaand the weight of needing to raise $15,000 for the advertising group I'm part of.

So, now that I've vented to you and you can choose whether to feel bad for me or tell me to suck it up and one-up me with all of your stressful lives, I'm going to show you what keeps me sane during my days.


My daily carton of orange juice - simply because it it is delicious and I need delicious things. Next, my array of colored pens. I would not be alive without my colored pens. They are the very lifeblood of organization in my life and they serve as the best way to doodle because I can draw different hair and eye colors and stuff, as well as giving myself pen tattoos. Last, yet most importantly, is my little red notebook. This is my bible. With so much shit going on, it is only my little red notebook, named, hmm, what shall I name it? Florence, or something. Anyway, it is only this notebook that allows me to write down everything I have to do, making it my worst enemy, yet, my best friend because then I get to cross it all off: in pink pen. I don't know why pink. Don't judge.

I hope I'm not alone in this, but I get a sick satisfaction out of crossing things off. It's knowing that I've defeated the black scrawl of ink that was just one more thing assigned to me as a means of wasting my life.

My face when I cross things off:

 As you can see it might be mildly unhealthy.

I came to the library with the intention of putting a huge dent in my accumulated workload, thus reducing stress. Have I yet? No. There is a reason, however.

I chose to study in the quiet rooms this afternoon because I knew I couldn't have any distractions (save blogging, of course). However, there is always that one douchebag that answers his phone and has a full-blown conversation at normal volume with mom. Then there are personal distractions. As I set all of my things out and finally settled into reading my Biological Anthropology book, I felt a slight twinge.


I had previously gulped down a large iced coffee and now my body, knowing perfectly well that I was in a wonderfully peaceful study environment where I could actually be productive, decided to fuck with me:

Body: Ha! I've been saving it for when you can't move!
Me: I'll hold the piss in and give you a bladder infection.
Body: Come on, man. Your buddy body needs to have some fun, too.
Me: Well, it isn't fun for me, seeing as how I either piss myself or lose all of my things to library thieves. And, hey asshole, I didn't appreciate you bestowing a log-shit on me during class either.
Body: .....
Me: Yeah, go fuck yourself.

So, I did what I really don't like to do: Interrupted some Asian girl wearing giant headphones attached to an iPhone in a bunny-ear case to ask her to watch my things. She said sure, and immediately put her head back down to whatever she had been reading. You can play "I'm offended" all you want but you know as well as I do that if anyone ever asks you to watch his or her things, you say yes and then forget you have been given this task until he or she comes back and says thanks. That's the moment you look up and hope that all personal possessions are still there. 

If so, you smile and say no problem. If not, you say, I'm so sorry! He threatened me! And if you have some fake blood on you, now would be the time to strategically place it on your body to simulate a shank wound. The person will be more concerned about your imminent death than his missing Mac.

Now I'm face down, like this insecure Asian man who was at the library not too long ago:


And I'm out of orange juice.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Corn Farming in English Class

Sitting in college classrooms each and every day (except Fridays), I often marvel at who my fine university has let inside. For example, Raspy Voice Number One of 20th Century American English.

We are discussing Sam Shepard (see Noah's father in The Notebook) and his Pulitzer Prize winning play, Buried Child. Namely, we are talking about the various props that Shepard uses to make statements about the themes prevalent throughout the play, I digress. Raspy Voice Number One, a frequent participator in our happy class, raises her hand to expand upon our professor's probing question: Why did Sam Shepard choose carrots and corn?

Normally, Raspy rambles on and on and on, even saying "so on and so forth," "blah blah blah," to fast-forward through the slower parts of her speeches. Today, however, she kept her stupidity short and sweet:

"Well, I mean, I know that corn and carrots grow underground and become unearthed so perhaps that could represent the family not wanting their past unearthed."

Oh, Raspy made a good point, but I'm sorry, did she just make the claim that corn grows underground like a carrot? To his credit our professor takes her point in good grace for a moment, applauding her insight about the carrots. Though, smirky as shit, and seemingly unable to resist he adds, "I should point out though that corn doesn't grow underground."

Thank God, I thought I'd had an aneurism. Apparently, all the corn I'd ever seen growing wasn't actually corn for a minute. Raspy, however, was unconvinced, "No, yes it does."

Again my eyes go wide, I'm shaking my head. "I swear there's some corn that grows underground."

I want the government checking this girl, her town grows mutant corn.

Now, our professor has a choice here, he can ignore her, just laughing and nodding his head or he can do what he actually did. Smile with good nature, and then shake his head and say "no" just ever so softly, but with enough emphasis and condescension that she should know just how stupid she truly is.

Thursday, February 23, 2012


I've met a good deal of people in my days who actually denounce the action of eating a banana in public. In a way, I understand their discomfort. Who honestly wants to appear to be fellating a piece of fruit, or more politely put, sookin' a waynka. (sucking a wanker). Let's be honest, a banana must be mother nature's cruel joke on us all.

I imagine her sitting on some beautiful swing made of willow branches and flowers, her gown of finest chiffon flowing behind her, the only thing ruining her pristine beauty is her sick sense of humor that has damned us all to closet banana-eating. She yells to her tiny mushroom minions (that she designed to look alarmingly like penises, as well), make the banana bigger! Thicker! She laughs at those who eat her giant bananas in public and punishes them by making those around them point and and throw stones.. and she and frowns upon those who cop out by discretely and quickly devouring Chiquita bananas. Pussies, she thinks, eating the Asian brand.

I only bring this up because I witnessed one such abjurer of fruit fellatio in my class today. No, she did not duck her head under the desk, put a book to her face, or, as I often do, strap the banana to my right shoulder and pretend I'm itching the side of my face while I bite. In fact, she never bit the banana at all. She meticulously peeled back the skin of the banana and only exposed as much of the fruit as she was planning to cut off. I'm not sure if her reasoning for peeling the banana in this way was because any exposure of the fruit was as bad as a dog's red rocket - fine while in its casing but once out....

**Side note: I find it appalling when someone says: "Whooa! Spot's makin' lipstick!" in reference to a horny dog. I want to be like: Why don't you let that dog do your makeup, then?

Anywho, she cut the banana with a plastic knife every time she wanted a bite. This is the most extreme case of bananafellatiophobia I have ever seen. And in the end, she made herself look even worse because instead of looking like she was sookin' a waynka, she looked like she was performing some sort of sadistic phallic surgery.

So the moral of this story? Just eat the banana as mother nature intended: a sex symbol, ya pervs.

Monday, February 20, 2012


Seeing as how I was up till 3 studying for an exam after an already long-as-hell day, I was in one of those life-questioning deep sleeps that on is only granted once in a blue moon. Like being reeled up slowly from the deepest depths of my slumbery sea, I started to hear something that definitely did not fit the usual morning environment.

Someone was in the apartment saying something that I could not quite understand. With the news of the previous night's campus robbery ringing fresh in my mind, I knew I must be the next target.

He said the same undecipherable mumble in a tone that was nothing but taunting. He was egging me on.

I shot out of bed and walked to the bedroom door, making sure it was locked; the whole time, keeping in my mind that I should really put some pants on to retain some dignity if I do get killed.

"Maaaintenaaance," the intruder said.

I finally understood it. After quickly throwing some pants on, I walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen and there he was.

"Hey there, sorry to wake ya up."

"No, no that's fine," I lied. We kind of just stood there looking at each other, me with only one eye open as I do when I first wake up. He looked a little freaked out and I wanted to say, really? Look what you've put me through.

"Ain't you the guys who called for a mouse?" At this, I had to control myself from throwing out the Avatar pursed-lip face (reference Tsu'tey from Avatar). I told him that was false and no one had ever called. He simply responded:

"Oooooh, shit." He persisted by asking the number of the apartment. Turns out that it was the right apartment. The whole time, I just kept wondering when he was going to finally leave.

"We-he-hell," he laughed, "I was called to just patch up some holes." Something tells me that he had more holes to patch up in his life than just those of mice and that he also got some sick satisfaction out of sealing mice into walls. He was actually a really nice guy, though.

I almost offered to make him a cup of coffee because that would have been better than just standing there, my one other eye starting to slowly open. Then, I thought of how a cup of coffee could be a gateway into his life-story.

"Well, we don't have a mouse," I said while shrugging my shoulders. "If we did have a mouse then you would be helpful," I laughed. I didn't even mean to sound like such a dick, it just came out in trying to make a humorous comment. However, that must have been his breaking point, for he finally left, apologizing profusely.

'WhatisthisIdon'teven,' is how I was feeling, and I just turned around and walked back into the bedroom. I kept my pants on this time.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Saturday Spent Swell

Ah, Saturday! The day between Friday and Sunday, making it the perfect day for plans with friends and plans for yourself. I find that Saturday should be spent going all out: partying 'til the break of dawn with your best amigos and ending it with a shameful (but in the moment, prideful and joyous) smorgasbord of Taco Bell, OR, Saturday should be spent being an introverted antisocial (but in a good way!) reading The Hobbit and playing Pokemon games (I don't care what you say, they will NEVER get boring and will NEVER get old). Now, the latter may sound like the opposite of what college is about but it's actually one of the best options out there.

The week has been stressful and stuffed full of assignments, boring 1 hour and 20 minute classes, gurgling stomachs due to lack of time for food, walking through a mishmash of incongruous weather, and those semi-early mornings that are not early but not late enough (oh baleful 11:40 a.m.s). One would think that the best cure for all of this scholarly insanity is to hang out with the bros and throw back some drinks, hopping from one party to the next, and spending a dollar per shot. Sometimes, this is okay. However, is it the best?? I'll try now to convince you that it is not.

Exhibit A: I'm writing this blog post that you all get to read... on a Saturday night.

Exhibit B: I have the promise of raspberry ice cream the instant I so crave it. Homemade, nbd.

Exhibit C: I am sitting in a cozy apartment, while many of you are walking about out in the frigid weather (if you're where I'm from) searching for a party from which you may or may not get rejected.

Now, those are just a couple of instances. But really, after all of the stresses of the week and the mental demands associated with them, all I want to do on the weekend is find my own personal zen! I deem myself a semi-loser. I brought books to school for a reason. This is the only time I get to read them and no, The Hobbit, mentioned above, was not hypothetical at all, it is on my shelf. Collector's edition.

What is better than laying on my full-size bed (a luxury rarely afforded to college students), and popping in the third season of TrueBlood? Vampires, sex, action, witty humor and mythical storyline all in one. It's the kind of stuff that party-goers are wishing would happen to them while they're out.

Confession time: I was invited to a party tonight and let my other half go while I stayed in, thinking that it would be better if I stay and do the blubber-ton of homework on my checklist. Five minutes after he has gone, I get texts from multiple friends at the party saying things like: "Y U NO HERE!? and, simply "WTF." I get off of the floor in a newly found fervor and pour myself a drink: half green apple vodka, half Mt. Dew, and chug. It is awful. I throw jeans on and a coat and top it off with a backwards Polo Ralph Lauren hat, thinking I look cool.. Once out the door headed for the bus stop, I get a call.

"Yeah, I'm ready to leave. The party is lame."

While still on the phone, I tiptoe back to the apartment, for I don't want who is on the other end to know I had given in and decided to come to said party.

Alas, I sit here now with a wasted buzz and a weight on my shoulders for the work I did not do.

Party on, fellow in-home Saturdayers, party on. Time for that ice cream.