Maintenance

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.

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.

How Yoga Deceived Me

As the clock struck midnight on December 31, 2011, millions drank from their champagne flutes to celebrate the new year and their resolutions, which probably include not drinking from champagne flutes as often. We all know they will inevitably fail. My ambitious New Year's resolution was to do at least one physical activity a day. So, in attempting to satisfy my baleful resolution, when my mother and sister bombarded me early-ish in the morning (during winter break, mind you) to ask me to come to a yoga class with them, I acquiesced.

"It will be great!" my mother squeaked, clapping her hands. "We will work out and then get green drink!"

Hold up. Whaddahell is green drink. I accepted, in my mind, that it was some sort of magical concoction of the Yogi gods, akin to ambrosia or, the Ferraro gods and their creation of Nutella (one can only hope anything will taste as good as Nutella but, of course, that is a FOOL'S DREAM.) Alas, we departed for the Yoga studio.

Upon arrival, I already knew something was awry. Eleven dollar smoothies. I would be getting no drink of the gods.

I grabbed some squishy yoga mat and walked up the narrow, spiral, wrought-iron staircase only to see that we were slightly late. Everyone was already in some position that looked like they were bowing to the petite and perky blond leading the pack. The room was a stifling 90 degrees and I was wearing sweatpants. Intentional increase in temperature - This MUST be hell. Even worse, the room was already crowded with different types of women: one, a hardcore, warrior-woman whose every move was like a blade slicing the air and making it bleed, another an obese soccer mom who somehow managed to bend in ways that seemed impossible for a woman of her girth. The rest seemed like bored housewives looking for a way to keep their husbands interested, and peppered here and there were the incomprehensibly sweaty men - some old, some young but with weird hairlines.

I was forced to lay my mat front and center. Everyone was watching as I got into the bow-down-to-me position, or, as I thought as soon as I bent down, the I'm-going-to-fart-in-this-poor-unsuspecting-woman's-face position.

What happened next, I can't event manage to describe. My body was manipulated in strange ways.. it turned out that the class was not, in fact, the relaxing Yoga I had signed up for, but a terribly demanding and rigorous Power Vinyasa class.

"Okay, now downward dog, Brrreeeeeeeathe throughthevinyasa, scorpion, eeeeeexhalle slooooowly.. BACKintodownwarddog, bring both feet up to your palms on the outside of either wrist, exteeeeeeeend, exteeeend again, Reeeeach UP! (absolute silence.. a stoic face) Tree pose. Breathe, and relax.

How the hell do I relax when I've been called multiple animals and a tree and didn't have any idea what a vinyasa was until I was forced into one. I still don't know what it is. All I know is that at one point, my foot was too close to the lip on the wall on which a little incense burner sat. I knocked it off and it clamored to the floor, as a result, my form suffered, leading the the instructor personally walking over to me and correcting my form. Remember, I am at the front of the class.

All in all, this wasn't a terrible experience. I could have actually fallen over like my poor sister did. Arms, chest, legs, butt, nearly everything, aching, I left the deceitful "yoga" class with a dazed expression. Jovial women smiled at each other and said, "Oh, let's come back tomorrow!" All I could think was, girl you CRAY.

Namaste.

Orch(id)asm

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.

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... -_-

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.

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.

Evidence:

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.