Dear Upstairs Neighbor,
If you're wondering why I was vacuuming at 6 am on a Saturday morning it is because I was/am mad at you for having LOUD sex while I was TRYING to sleep!
Ok, I understand that you're a belly dancer and you've got to get it on or whatever. Just, please, QUIT WITH THE OBNOXIOUS MOANING. And when your dog starts barking at you....DO SOMETHING. IT'S 2 IN THE MORNING AND I'M UNABLE TO THINK IN BETWEEN THOSE ANNOYING GROANS.
I'm not bitter that you're having sex. Really. I don't care if you have sex with that huge, no-neck, tattooed beast of a man I saw you entering you entering your part of our tri-plex with at 1. Nope, I really don't care if you have sex with him. Even if it happens right above my room. What I DO care about is that YOU FREAKING SHUT UP.
So, if you woke up at 6 this morning after a busy, ahem, night, and felt irritated that my vacuum was going and I was simultaneously singing "Call Me Maybe" at the top of my lungs, now you know why. My roommates weren't even home so I wasn't disturbing anyone BUT YOU.
Hope you're wandering around as groggily as I am today. Jerk.
Sincerely,
Me.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Writer's Block
Guys,
(Or girls, if you are a hardcore feminist)
I have writer's block. I really do. I don't know what to write about. I have several good rants that I can think of: hipsters, Pitbull, modern music, why I'm the only person who likes All-American-Rejects anymore, gas prices, college prices, my landlord....BUT I can't put them into words. Here. Have an image:
This image is exactly how I feel right now. Right now my percentage of wins in Solitare is about...5%. Great.
Back to writer's block.
Those of you who don't write don't understand at all what we go through. We being the writing community. We being me pretending to be part of the writing community. (And yes, I've written novels. They're just sitting on my computer un-published and un-read. It's fine.) Writer's block is a sickness. It's like you have so many things to say. And you start to type and the clicking of the keys or the music in the background (which is right now, "It Ends Tonight." Stop judging) or all those thoughts swirling can't settle into something comprehensible, let alone readable.
So we wait. Or at least I do. Trying to write through writer's block is like trying to push through an invisible wall of cheese. You think you're going somewhere and then you just end up smothered in cheesiness and you smell like Cheddar. Weird analogy, but now I'm craving a grilled cheese.
Moving on.
Thoughts swirling, right. So those thoughts are all trying to sift through one another and you think, naively, "I'm going to write through it." WRONG. You can't. All the words look and sound stupid. You feel amateur and illiterate. You throw out words in your work like, "Supercilious," and "Exorbitantly," and all that does is convince you that you actually have no grasp of the English language.
So. My small and probably non-existent group of readers--forgive my lack of attentiveness. I need to get rid of this block and come back with a great post concerning Pitbull or How To Make the Best Grilled Cheese Ever.
Until then....
(Or girls, if you are a hardcore feminist)
I have writer's block. I really do. I don't know what to write about. I have several good rants that I can think of: hipsters, Pitbull, modern music, why I'm the only person who likes All-American-Rejects anymore, gas prices, college prices, my landlord....BUT I can't put them into words. Here. Have an image:
This image is exactly how I feel right now. Right now my percentage of wins in Solitare is about...5%. Great.
Back to writer's block.
Those of you who don't write don't understand at all what we go through. We being the writing community. We being me pretending to be part of the writing community. (And yes, I've written novels. They're just sitting on my computer un-published and un-read. It's fine.) Writer's block is a sickness. It's like you have so many things to say. And you start to type and the clicking of the keys or the music in the background (which is right now, "It Ends Tonight." Stop judging) or all those thoughts swirling can't settle into something comprehensible, let alone readable.
So we wait. Or at least I do. Trying to write through writer's block is like trying to push through an invisible wall of cheese. You think you're going somewhere and then you just end up smothered in cheesiness and you smell like Cheddar. Weird analogy, but now I'm craving a grilled cheese.
Moving on.
Thoughts swirling, right. So those thoughts are all trying to sift through one another and you think, naively, "I'm going to write through it." WRONG. You can't. All the words look and sound stupid. You feel amateur and illiterate. You throw out words in your work like, "Supercilious," and "Exorbitantly," and all that does is convince you that you actually have no grasp of the English language.
So. My small and probably non-existent group of readers--forgive my lack of attentiveness. I need to get rid of this block and come back with a great post concerning Pitbull or How To Make the Best Grilled Cheese Ever.
Until then....
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Why Nicki Minaj Should Get Out Of My Life
A conversation between Nicki and I:
N: "Starships were meant to fllyyyy, hands up and touch the skyyyy. Let's doo this one more tiiiime" *rap-like words ensue*
G: Thank you, Miss Minaj for that garbled crap. Please, sit down. You're done.
N: "Ok, I get it, let me think I guess it's my turn. I think it's time to put this p*ssy on your sideburn."
G: No...No. Nobody wants you to do that. Nobody wants Herpes either, so keep your pants on.
N: "I beez in the trap, beez beez in the trap!"
G: ......That's the best rapping you can do Minaj? Really? If I wanted to hear about you having sex I'd just have to...listen to anything else you feature in/sing in. NOW SHUT UP OR DIE.
And that is how a conversation would go with her. That is, if she decided she was going to be a human for the conversation and say intelligible--no--coherent--words, instead of simply yelling/grunting frightening sounds.
Here she is. Before she was plastic (or, at least, before she was 95% plastic) when she first joined the rap group Young Money. And here she is before/after surgery:
Does she ever pop/melt in heat? Have her lips ever deflated after going from a cold place to a hot place or vice versa really quickly?
And also...how did this plastic slut get to be so big in our country?? And no, I'm not referring to the size of her balloon boobs or shelf-butt. I'm talking about her popularity. Half the time she doesn't know which character she wants to be. British, Rapper, Psycho...Half the other time she's repeating her name as though we don't already know it. That isn't music! That's not even rap! What the heck is it? Why is this thing famous in our society? Paris Hilton? Famous slut. Pretty. Ok, I get it. Brittney Spears? Pop "singer." Lots of problems to dramatize in the media. I get it. Nicki? What the heck is going on? Why is that whore on my radio?!
And just for ONCE I would like to see her in a t-shirt, (no Nicki a T SHIRT not a corset. They don't even sound the same) loose jeans, and minimum makeup. (Minimum because I think after all that makeup there's probably a fine layer of chemicals that won't come off anymore.) And heck, she'd probably be mildly attractive! Except for that mouth. She could stuff an entire cake in that mouth, geez.
But now I'm just being rude and shallow.
It's just that I keep seeing this kind of image of her:
N: "Starships were meant to fllyyyy, hands up and touch the skyyyy. Let's doo this one more tiiiime" *rap-like words ensue*
G: Thank you, Miss Minaj for that garbled crap. Please, sit down. You're done.
N: "Ok, I get it, let me think I guess it's my turn. I think it's time to put this p*ssy on your sideburn."
G: No...No. Nobody wants you to do that. Nobody wants Herpes either, so keep your pants on.
N: "I beez in the trap, beez beez in the trap!"
G: ......That's the best rapping you can do Minaj? Really? If I wanted to hear about you having sex I'd just have to...listen to anything else you feature in/sing in. NOW SHUT UP OR DIE.
And that is how a conversation would go with her. That is, if she decided she was going to be a human for the conversation and say intelligible--no--coherent--words, instead of simply yelling/grunting frightening sounds.
Here she is. Before she was plastic (or, at least, before she was 95% plastic) when she first joined the rap group Young Money. And here she is before/after surgery:
Does she ever pop/melt in heat? Have her lips ever deflated after going from a cold place to a hot place or vice versa really quickly?
And also...how did this plastic slut get to be so big in our country?? And no, I'm not referring to the size of her balloon boobs or shelf-butt. I'm talking about her popularity. Half the time she doesn't know which character she wants to be. British, Rapper, Psycho...Half the other time she's repeating her name as though we don't already know it. That isn't music! That's not even rap! What the heck is it? Why is this thing famous in our society? Paris Hilton? Famous slut. Pretty. Ok, I get it. Brittney Spears? Pop "singer." Lots of problems to dramatize in the media. I get it. Nicki? What the heck is going on? Why is that whore on my radio?!
And just for ONCE I would like to see her in a t-shirt, (no Nicki a T SHIRT not a corset. They don't even sound the same) loose jeans, and minimum makeup. (Minimum because I think after all that makeup there's probably a fine layer of chemicals that won't come off anymore.) And heck, she'd probably be mildly attractive! Except for that mouth. She could stuff an entire cake in that mouth, geez.
But now I'm just being rude and shallow.
It's just that I keep seeing this kind of image of her:
And this image:
And I can't help feeilng concerned that she's either mentally insane, or we are. Either way, could she please sink back to anonymity? Thanks.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Dental Hatred
Where can I buy this book??
I went in today. I had no cavities. I had little tarter. But of course, the hygienist uses that new invention--I call it Satan--the electric tartar scraper. It makes a highpitched noise akin to nails on a chalkboard, and this is, consequently, enough to get my palms to sweat and my "fight or flight" syndrome awakened. Needless to say I was already on edge.
Then I hear that dreaded phrase from dentists, "Hmm what is that?..." That has got to be one of the worst feelings ever--invoking sinking dread while watching their face turn curious as they probe something in your mouth. "That" turned out to be a salivary stone. Seriously, who gets these? Me! I didn't even know my salivary glands were under my tongue! Now I have a build-up of calcium in them? What is this?!
Why are dentists such awful people?! It's like no matter how confident you feel going into the dentist office, you will feel exponentially more awful walking out. Even if your teeth are beautiful, you might have a salivary gland stone now!! Or, if you're one of the lucky ones with absolutely nothing wrong, your gums are still sensitive from being attacked and you're stinging with fresh guilt from the "FLOSS MORE!" chastisement.
I can't take it anymore.
Friday, July 20, 2012
To Femininity And Beyond!
Top Ten Reasons Why Being a Girl is So Much Better
1) Periods. You get to shed your uterus every month, like a snake. Everyone loves snakes. Everyone also loves mood swings. Shake it up, I always say.
2) Hair! You get to shave or wax about 90% of your body hair, but get to keep the hair on your head long and luscious, lest you be labelled a dyke. You get to spend lots of money on expensive conditioners to lather into your hair, giving you an excuse to wash your hair twice. (What could be better!)
3) Pregnancy. If you want to fool around and be sexually promiscuous you get the thrill of knowing that at any moment you could mess up and then be committed to a long, laborious (pun intended) pregnancy, and then a life as either a single mother, or married to the partner you didn't quite remember the name of so you labelled him "Potential Father of My Bastard," in your phone.
4) Birth Rights. You get allll the privileges of birthing a baby. Remember, if you choose to go natural, you will get to experience the most excruciating pain there is to experience, next to breaking your femur. Who doesn't want to go through that?! If you do choose to go with an epidural or c-section, you still get fun things like c-section scars (battle scars, really!) or a torn up vagina. New experiences galore! Remember, there's a good chance you'll be fat, oozing with various bodily fluids, and stretched out after the birth, so you'll be really glad you have a crying baby at 4 in the morning to distract you from those little diddies.
5) You get to worry about everything incessantly! Personal appearance, sex appeal, weight, and even the things you can't control--like height and nostril diameter.
6) Other girls. Other girls are wonderfully dramatic creatures who will hate you and try to destroy you if you so much as casually mention that their boyfriend looks like a hungover Mick Jagger.
7) Feminism. Feminist? More power to you, literally! Join the lesbians and bitter, single, working women of the world in the pursuit of more power! Or, if you're not a feminist, you get the treat of being labelled "traditional" and sneered at by women who are far superior to you. Middle of the road? Don't feel left out--feminists and non-feminists alike will both despies and disdain you!
8) Bras. Because everyone wants to strap part of their body into uncomfortable pushed up positions or be considered revolting and saggy.
9) Poor Driving. Whether the stereotype is true for you or not, you don't have to worry...it is assured for you that men will never, ever, EVER, trust your driving. Whether you can read a map or not, whether you can parallel park or not, you will never have to do any of those things, so long as you have a man. HE will know how to drive like a NASCAR racer and navigate with the skills of a pirate king himself. It'll be like having a chaffeur--who either won't let you drive or will nag and grumble about your driving skills! And it's free!
10) Sexist Pigs. No matter what, you will always encounter a sexist pig. There is no need to worry if he is or isn't going to pop into your life and stare at your chest, grinning slightly, while you explain that the gas pump isn't accepting your credit card. He will always leer at you when you feel least attractive. He will whistle at you if you crouch down to tie your shoe. He will make rude comments to his friends audibly enough that you can hear them. Reliable, perverted, and undressing you mentally, he's as reliable as the sun rising in the east.
1) Periods. You get to shed your uterus every month, like a snake. Everyone loves snakes. Everyone also loves mood swings. Shake it up, I always say.
2) Hair! You get to shave or wax about 90% of your body hair, but get to keep the hair on your head long and luscious, lest you be labelled a dyke. You get to spend lots of money on expensive conditioners to lather into your hair, giving you an excuse to wash your hair twice. (What could be better!)
3) Pregnancy. If you want to fool around and be sexually promiscuous you get the thrill of knowing that at any moment you could mess up and then be committed to a long, laborious (pun intended) pregnancy, and then a life as either a single mother, or married to the partner you didn't quite remember the name of so you labelled him "Potential Father of My Bastard," in your phone.
4) Birth Rights. You get allll the privileges of birthing a baby. Remember, if you choose to go natural, you will get to experience the most excruciating pain there is to experience, next to breaking your femur. Who doesn't want to go through that?! If you do choose to go with an epidural or c-section, you still get fun things like c-section scars (battle scars, really!) or a torn up vagina. New experiences galore! Remember, there's a good chance you'll be fat, oozing with various bodily fluids, and stretched out after the birth, so you'll be really glad you have a crying baby at 4 in the morning to distract you from those little diddies.
5) You get to worry about everything incessantly! Personal appearance, sex appeal, weight, and even the things you can't control--like height and nostril diameter.
6) Other girls. Other girls are wonderfully dramatic creatures who will hate you and try to destroy you if you so much as casually mention that their boyfriend looks like a hungover Mick Jagger.
7) Feminism. Feminist? More power to you, literally! Join the lesbians and bitter, single, working women of the world in the pursuit of more power! Or, if you're not a feminist, you get the treat of being labelled "traditional" and sneered at by women who are far superior to you. Middle of the road? Don't feel left out--feminists and non-feminists alike will both despies and disdain you!
8) Bras. Because everyone wants to strap part of their body into uncomfortable pushed up positions or be considered revolting and saggy.
9) Poor Driving. Whether the stereotype is true for you or not, you don't have to worry...it is assured for you that men will never, ever, EVER, trust your driving. Whether you can read a map or not, whether you can parallel park or not, you will never have to do any of those things, so long as you have a man. HE will know how to drive like a NASCAR racer and navigate with the skills of a pirate king himself. It'll be like having a chaffeur--who either won't let you drive or will nag and grumble about your driving skills! And it's free!
10) Sexist Pigs. No matter what, you will always encounter a sexist pig. There is no need to worry if he is or isn't going to pop into your life and stare at your chest, grinning slightly, while you explain that the gas pump isn't accepting your credit card. He will always leer at you when you feel least attractive. He will whistle at you if you crouch down to tie your shoe. He will make rude comments to his friends audibly enough that you can hear them. Reliable, perverted, and undressing you mentally, he's as reliable as the sun rising in the east.
Retirement Community Crisis
Just imagine it. Bingo Night every Wednesday. A swimming pool that nobody uses. Free applesauce on Sunday afternoons at the community center. Peace and quiet 25 hours a day. A funeral every other month. Who doesn't want to live in a retirement community??
Me.
I hate applesauce without cinnamon. I cry like a faucet at funerals--then get a headache. I don't want to get yelled at every time I go to the pool without a full-body wet suit. I suck at Bingo.
In addition, I'd like to walk on the grass. I'd like to smell like my Marc Jacobs perfume and live my life without an overwhelming scent of prunes and must. I'd like to not have a neighbor named Old Mrs. Plum who tsks disdainfully at me when I come back at 8:30 pm, muttering about the state of my morals.
Seriously, so one of my friends/roommates is looking at apartments like a fiend. She's unable to satisifed with anything but the best, or such is my creeping suspicion--this suspicion arising from the fact that everything she looks at is over a thousand dollars a month for rent. Call me cheap, but I'm not going to pay that much.
And then, lo and behold, our dream apartment drops in from heaven to grace us with its splendor. 950 a month, 3 bedrooms, 3 bath, a swimming pool, spacious, great neighborhood. (Previously, she'd turned her nose up at anything with less than the best neighborhood.) So far, so good, right?
"It's in a retirement community made up of 55 year old people and older...but living with old people will be great!" she added hastily.
....Are you kidding me? Ok, I'm not "agist." I'm not against elderly people. They're great, really. In all their wrinkly, saggy, prune-smelling, splendor, I really love old people. But I refuse, as a rational, level-headed, loud-music loving, college student to live in a retirement community. I refuse to invite friends over, and ask that they turn down their cell phones to vibrate--maybe silent, if the neighbors are sleeping...at 6:30 pm. I'm not going to live in a "condo" if that means I have rush to the microwave before it can ding loudly and startle Old Mrs. Plum. No. I refuse.
I tried arguing rationally. Wasn't there some sort of rule that would keep us out, seeing as we're about 30 years under the age limit? No. Didn't they distrust us, fearing for their "Tranquility and Utter Silence" rule? No--the manager was a really super nice guy. Didn't my friend want to live somewhere with younger people? No. 3 bathrooms, 3 bedrooms? Wouldn't that make things cramped? No no, the rooms were very spacious.
I've resorted to a simple "I don't like old people," motto. (Again, that's not true at all. Please, don't attack me with your walkers, oversized handbags that weigh down the right side of your body, or walking canes.) But we wouldn't fit in! And they wouldn't like me for the simple fact that sometimes when I'm excited my voice goes above a whisper!
What college student can even throw a party in a retirement community? And I'm not talking about a rager where you meet friends of your friends' older siblings' friends' friends and where there's beer so sticky on the floor you're reduced to standing in a weird awkward corner talking to a really hammered guy with a pedo mustache. No, I'm talking about having a few friends over and watching Disney movies in your pajamas with popcorn and those sour gummy watermelon candies. I'm talking about a study group with your nerd-friends from Anatomy class who you depend on to get you a passing grade. I'm talking about a "get together." A "rendezvous." A "hangout," if you will.
Lest I write an essay on my displeasure I will end with--I'm not living in a retirement community. Stop frowning at me in all your disdainful wisdom Old Mrs. Plum. Geez.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Oh Yeah? Well My Rubber Band Ball is Bigger Than Yours!
And they say reception is boring...
What I did today:
What I did today:
- Stamped mail.
- Rummaged in a drawer. Found the roll-on stamp-pad inker.
- Inked my date stamp.
- Contributed to my rubberband ball.
- Made faces at people over the phone.
- Re-inked my date-stamper.
- Put Fingertip Moistener on my fingers and tried it out. (I could turn like a million pages)
- Tried out my date-stamper, again. Felt dissatisfied.
- Re-inked my date stamp.
- Read the "do not over-ink pad" on Ink Refiller.
- Got ink on my fingers.
- Added more rubberbands to my ball.
- Stamped "sensitive information" on a bunch of papers for no reason.
- Re-inked my date stamp, despite warnings. (seriously, that never gets old)
- Listened to Maroon 5's Songs About Jane on repeat.
- Examined my toenails critically.
- Spun around in my swivelly chair a few times.
- Gazed at my rubberband proudly, again.
- Gave the re-inker the eye...
- Closed up shop.
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