Proof that I will soon die

In 12 days or so, my friend Lucy are leaving on an 8-day cross-country road trip. SO EXCITED! However, in preparation, I made the wise decision to watch every single horror movie about road trips in existence. (Almost.)

GOD DAMN! Who knew so much could go wrong?!?! So far, I have learned these things about road trips:
1. Pretty girls are always die. Especially if they’re slutty and/or stupid as fuck.
EXCEPTION: A pretty girl might survive under the condition that she is introverted and suspicious, or willing to kill all her friends.
2. People having sex always die first.
3. Tents are easily slashed with just the right knife.
4. Never pee in rest stops, or you will be stranded there and eventually tortured.
5. Never follow a detour sign, especially not cardboard ones.
6. Never accept an invitation to the Guts ‘n Glory Festival.
7. Amish people are not to be trusted.

So, to avoid painful torturous death, I resolve to:
1. Be really ugly all the time.
2. Wear a wedding ring and call my fake husband on a nightly basis.
3. Pee in the car while in transit.
4. Bring a gun and kill everyone I see (besides Lucy).

Okay, I feel better.

Swim Teams: Round Two

I blogged last summer about how much I hate swim teams. Once I moved to Ohio, I totally forgot about them. Nobody swims in Ohio. I mean, how are you going to make room for a swimming pool amongst all that corn? But yesterday, on a typical afternoon frozen yogurt, the feelings flooded back: I REALLY REALLY HATE SWIM TEAMS.

There was a caravan of delightfully decorated SUVs (because you can’t transport one soggy, wet 5-year-old in anything that gets more than 4 miles to the gallon) heading through Lafayette. When I say “delightful”, I mean STUPID. SO STUPID.

You can totally tell what these moms are thinking. Those giant shark fins are totally compensation for everything they lack. The mom with the biggest foam fin is totally the mom with the smallest dick. And you’ve got to love the window paint.

“Go Tommy! Swim fast! Your success will fill mommy with all the meaning that breast implants could not!”
“Go Tommy, win! Then, remember you have baseball practice after this and then Boy Scouts tonight! Remember not to eat, only skinny boys can WIN!”

I know I’m wrong. I was wrong last summer and I’m wrong again. But I really really fucking hate swim teams. They represent everything I hate about Lamorinda.

Just kidding. Swim teams are okay, I guess. Whatever. I’d be fine with it if they TOOK THOSE FUCKING FINS OFF THEIR CARS. And kept their drippy babies away from me.

Inevitable Summer Regression

…Hiii. It’s been awhile, right? I guess I didn’t really the need to blog at all during the school year. That was pretty dumb.

But yeah. Really, this summer has been awesome. I’ve found that, as expected, I’ve regressed to the mental state of a 9-year-old. I spend all my time listening to Britney Spears, playing old Pokemon gameboy games, and don’t even get me started on how many times I’ve seen the Hannah Montana movie. Really.

I guess what’s keeping me partially anchored at age 19 is all the sex work. Not the kind you’re thinking of. I’ve been volunteering manymanymany hours a week at Planned Parenthood, training to become a Reproductive Health Specialist. It’s hard to think about Pokemon when you’re discussing the various ways to transmit gonorrhea.

Grapefruit is calling. I’ll finish this later.

Emily is donating her status to SHUT UP.

Okay. I have a totally irrational, meaningless complaint. Thank god this blog exists. Ready?

I really appreciate that our generation is taking interest in politics. I think it’s really cool. But honestly? BARACK OBAMA DOESN’T CARE THAT HIS NAME IS IN YOUR FACEBOOK STATUS 800 TIMES A DAY.

Okay, time to ‘fess up. I was SO going to vote for John McCain. I had my absentee ballot in hand, pencil at the ready…but of course, after checking my facebook and seeing that so-and-so REALLY wanted me to vote for Obama, I decided to swing the other way. I mean, if 500,000 people donate their statuses to him, whatever the fuck that means, then he really must be the right candidate.

WHAT THE FUCK? IT’S FUCKING FACEBOOK. DO YOU THINK THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENS? NO. IT DOESN’T.

DEAR GOD. Change your statuses back to “_____ is OMGZZzz so in love with edward cuLLeN!!!!” That’ll make more of an impact than donating your status to Obama. I promise.

p.s. I like how voting is the new cool thing to do. It’s better than buying Uggs or getting high by asphixiation.

YAY.

I was accepted to be one of Oberlin’s student bloggers! Woohoo!

The thought that I am going to be paid to write shit like this is pretty mind-blowing…and fantastic. Best job ever.

However, I have my Chinese Thought and Religion midterm tomorrow. EWW. Too many philosophers to keep straight, and they all have the same mustache.

Excitement.

Tonight is Boy Band Night at the ‘Sco, Oberlin’s tiny basement dance club.

10 pm to 1 am. Backstreet Boys. N’Sync. LFO.

HEAVEN.

Minimal complaining

I really have had nothing to complain about lately, and it’s really pretty depressing.

A few days ago, a cicada decided it might be a good idea to live outside our window.

…Motherfucker.

I even saw it on the window, but decided it would go away. I could have killed it while I had the chance. But no.

I think it did eventually leave or die or something. Okay, complaint resolved. That was kinda lame.

The pee wind is back. That’s a shame as well.

But really, life has been pretty nice lately. My classes are fun, my pants finally expanded again, hula hooping is awesome, as is marching band, etc.

I got off campus for the first time on Sunday! I went with marching band to some little restaurant called Steak ‘N’ Shake. It was gross, but fantastic because anything that isn’t from the dining hall is delicious to me right now. Even though our dining hall is pretty good. Oh well.

I got in to Wind Ensemble! I’m very excited. We’re playing Children’s March. YESSSS.

It’s been a nice week. Hopefully the rest of the year is this cool.

Blind Fury

Yeah. YEAH. You want to know why?

I brought, like, four pairs of pants with me to college. I’ve been wearing my good pair of jeans for the last, I don’t know, three weeks?

(SHUT UP, IT’S NOT GROSS. THEY’RE PANTS.)

So, today, I decided it would be a good idea to wear my other pair of jeans. I put them on. La-dee-da, brush hair, brush teeth…hmm. Something seems a little off. What could it be?

OH, OF COURSE.

MY PANTS SMELLED LIKE MOTHERFUCKING FEET.

THE SAME NASTY, ROTTEN, DISGUSTING FEET SMELL THAT I BATTLED WITH ALL SUMMER LONG.

IT FOLLOWED ME TO FUCKING OHIO.

I AM SO MAD I COULD BARF. AND EVEN THAT WOULD SMELL BETTER THAN FUCKING DEAD PEOPLE MYSTERY LAUNDRY FEET.

THEY WERE FRESH OUT OF THE DRAWER, TOO. I HAVEN’T WORN THEM OR WASHED THEM SINCE I’VE GOTTEN HERE.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

STAY AWAY FROM THE LIGHT.

HOLD ON, HECTOR. EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY.

IT IS.

Remember that happy ending I was telling you about? Hector and two other cacti living together in harmony?

WROOONG. Everything went awry. Emily G. did all she could, but Hector must have been homesick or angry- he went wild. Two days and multiple tragedies later, he was in four pieces and headed for the dumpster.

He belongs in the dumpster. BUT NO. What did I do? I took him back, because I’m too fucking emotionally attached to him. That’s right.

So, now, he’s getting bed rest. He’s all bandaged up. Observe:

Hector resting up

His arm is in a sling. A communist sling, of course.

Communist sling

I am not sure where I will sleep. His health is my priority in this time of crisis.

But, after he recovers…

GOD DAMN IT, I WILL FIND A HOME FOR HECTOR IF IT’S THE LAST THING I EVER DO.

Nothing, really.

This entry has no specific purpose, except to provide yet another distraction to prevent me from starting my homework.

It’s gloomy and nasty and icky and rainy and gross today. It makes me want to do nothing, except maybe sleep more. And eat. I did go to the gym this morning, though. I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE PROUD OF AN ACCOMPLISHMENT.

So, last night was full of band merriment. Some of the marching band seniors have a small village house, so we headed over there for some quality band bonding. We played some card game that was like those nerdy Pokemon card games I always played, except it was with cowboys and guns and shooting and stuff. I committed assisted suicide after about 30 minutes so that I wouldn’t have to pay attention, because it was boring.

Then, some kid did magic tricks. He seemed to be very intensely proud of the whole magic thing (card tricks are cool, not gonna lie). Another guy there expressed skepticism, and it was a very bad idea. VERY BAD. Heated arguments and various magical demonstrations ensued. Never has bonding or magic been so very awkward, tense, uncomfortable, and HILARIOUS. I heart marching band so much.

Two days ago, Emily G. and I made a cake for her birthday.

A double-layered cake, frosted with two jars of Nutella and sprinkled with crumbled up Pirouette wafer cookies (the tube kind filled with chocolate).

IT CHANGED MY LIFE FOR THE BETTER.

Nutella cake

It was, by far, the most delicious 10,000-calorie thing I have ever consumed.

Just looking at it might give me diabetes.

…SOOO WORTH IT.

Needless to say, we’re both popular now. My life’s dream has finally been realized and I can now die happy.

(JUST KIDDING, that was only middle school. My REAL life’s dream is living in a bounce-house house. AND IT WILL HAPPEN.)

It’s Saturday afternoon, so naturally, I’m sitting on the computer, doing nothing. The rain is limiting.

I’m so jealous of those village-housers. I want to snuggle up in a blanket, in a comfy chair, in my tiny college-sponsored house, with a couple of my friends, and play board games on nice-looking carpet that won’t give you tetanus from skin contact with it. I’d have to import these friends from other states, though, and shipping is expensive, so I guess I should wait.

I’m at point A in life right now. I assume most people have a point B, perhaps graduate school, a career, something like that.

My point B is death. I should really look in to changing that.

p.s. Something is making our hall smell horrible. HORRIBLE. LIKE ROTTING ANIMAL. I think it’s coming from the trash can, but since last night was Friday night, I’m really too scared to look.