A Typical Evening

We made a sex robot.

Not a robot for sex, but the robo-embodiment of sex.

His name is Pr0nbot 2. Observe.

Pr0nbot 2

Here’s a close up:

Torso

His chest is covered in vaguely sexual clippings from a Parents magazine. In case you can’t read what it says:

“Hard. Easy.”
“What does love smell like? Tickle here to find out.”
“You Chews.”
“You want it. You need it. Now get it.”
“Every wonder what yum smells like?”
“Spit it out already!”
“The perfect muffin has arrived!”
“Sharing doesn’t come naturally, but playing games does.”
“Now you’re cooking.”
“We talk about it at every opportunity…”
“Treat yourself with every bite.”
“You put natural things into what you made. So do we.”
“No more crying and no more wincing.”
“I wanna get down!”
“When you’re this sure, get a little creative.”
“Shave for a cause!”
“Limp, limp, limp.”

And my personal favorite:

“Do you long for LONG?”

I swear, we went to a party AFTER we did this. Really. And Pr0nbot 2 faithfully guarded our room against the throngs of drunk chicks roaming the halls.

Doesn’t “Twisted Side Pony” sound like some kind of perverse sex position? Yes, it does.

More Unsolved Mysteries

Something outside my dorm room makes horrible noises. Every hour of the day, with brief breaks.

The noise isn’t really that horrible, just annoying.

It sounds like some really tall man outside my window is peeing into a very short, empty toilet.

I know, it’s college, and I expect that sort of thing. Really. But it’s annoying, and he starts and stops a lot.

Unless it’s not pee; maybe it’s just the wind.

That would be so boring.

College, Day Three

I’m just wrapping up my third day at Oberlin. It’s been pretty great, so far. You know, besides the required orientation events and such. Those were shit. But other things have been fun.

I’ve met some very cool people. I’m not a social person…in fact, I’m hanging out in my dorm room right now while the rest of my hall dances awkwardly in a circle to Lollipop by ‘Lil Wayne. Missing out? No…because I have that song on my IPod. Duh.

I’m really not into the mass socializing thing. I don’t like making casual acquaintances, I like making friends. Maybe it’s a character flaw, but maybe not.

My roommate is fantastic! We listen to Damaged by Danity Kane. Which is all the cultural exposure I need, I think. It’s great.

There are small bloodstains on my curtains, but they’re negligible.

The girl’s bathroom lacks paper towels and tampon receptacles, which is somewhat less negligible, but okay.

This all feels like summer camp. Maybe when I start taking 15 credit hours next week, it’ll feel more like death camp, WWII-style.

I don’t have a lot to complain about yet. But I suspect I will tomorrow. Let’s keep in touch.

Mystery: Unsolved

I’m sure you’ll be as ecstatic as I was to discover that the redone laundry does not stink of mystery feet. It smells rather delicious now, actually.

So instead of eating the box of detergent to sublimate my anger, I ate half of a can of Nutella to celebrate.

I’ll never take clean clothes for granted ever, ever again.

Now, if only I knew why everything smelled of feet in the first place. I should call CSI. Except that they’d be all:

“Miss, we found traces of blood, pus, and semen on your walls. Do you remember finding disembodied feet in your drawers?”

Because that’s what happens on every episode of CSI that I’ve ever seen.

As if I needed to smell any worse…

For the last two months, I’ve been rooting through all my clothes and cleaning out my drawers.

And I have noticed that a lot of my clothes smell really strongly of feet. But they aren’t socks. They’re sweaters, pants, t-shirts, and shit like that. NO SOCKS.

The feet-clothes are never concentrated in one drawer. They’re everywhere. Scattered all over my room.

Swear to god, it’s been happening since June. AND IT’S DRIVING ME CRAZY, YOU GUYS.

Remember that LAMA concert I was telling you about? When I pulled my fancy black dress out of my drawer…FEET. IT SMELLED OF DISGUSTING FEET. I had to Febreeze it and roll around on my front lawn to get the smell out. GROSS. The girls agreed with me, it smelled like nasty feet. It’s not just in my head.

So, last night, I pull a nice, clean load of laundry out of the dryer. As I’m carrying it to my room, I notice that something seems unpleasant. I smell the laundry.

THE SMELL OF FEET. FUCKING FEET. ALL OVER EVERYTHING. SOUR, NASTY, SWEATY, SPORTY FEET. DSFDFSDSSDFSFD.

I’M USING CAPS LOCK NOW BECAUSE I’M REALLY, REALLY PISSED OFF. I HATE SMELLING LIKE A DEAD PERSON’S FOOT.

MY SOCKS DIDN’T EVEN SMELL LIKE FEET BEFORE I WASHED THEM. NOW THEY DO. WHAT THE FUCK, YOU GUYS. THERE WAS NO FEETY SMELL IN THAT LAUNDRY. MY UNWASHED LAUNDRY SMELLED LIKE ARMPIT. NOT FEET. THE DETERGENT SMELLS GOOD. THE WASHER SMELLS WATERY, BUT GOOD. THE DRYER SMELLS LIKE RUINED ELECTRONICS THAT I’VE FRIED IN MY PANT POCKETS OVER THE YEARS…JUST KIDDING IT SMELLS GOOD.

I’M REDOING THIS LOAD OF LAUNDRY NOW AND IF IT COMES OUT SMELLING LIKE FEET, I’M GOING TO EAT THE ENTIRE BOX OF DETERGENT AND THEN SAW OFF MY ARMS.

On top of this, there’s some horde of people playing African drums really loudly behind my house. And cheering at inappropriate times. This is unacceptable. Especially at 11:30 a.m., which might as well be 6 a.m. for me, because I’m always tired regardless of the hour.

Fuck.

The laundry is done.

And I’m scared.

Dumb.

I just spent four solid hours on Facebook.

FOR NO REASON.

I leave Monday. I should be, you know, making the best of my time.

False. Instead, I look through all my old Facebook photo albums, old wall-to-walls…I wasn’t even stalking anyone. That’s just disappointing.

Maybe I should go do something productive with my life, like eat. Or sleep. Yes, that sounds about right.

Last Days

They’re finally here. My last few days in Moraga. I’ve been waiting for these days for so long, and now that they’ve arrived, I’m not sure I’m ready.

It’s fucked up, isn’t it? Yeah. It is.

I had a god-awful time in high school. I’m not going to lie, I hated just about every second of it. I felt like I was being forced to fit some mold that was just entirely the wrong shape to begin with. Like I was a puzzle piece from one of those 3-piece dinosaur floor puzzles for unintelligent children being forced into a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of star formations or something you would want to throw at a wall after five unsuccessful hours of assembly. Take this class. Do this. Do this too. Make sure you do this so that you’ll get in to a Good College™. But I didn’t want any of that. It didn’t feel right. What was the most logical solution for me? Spend four miserable years doing it all anyway. Because I’m dumb, and I didn’t know any better.

Now I know better. This summer, I’ve come to realize a lot about myself and how I need to live my life. I need to do what makes me happy. I’ve done that this summer. I’ve found a lot of what I’m looking for in life during the past few months. And for the first time in years, I’m honestly happy.

And now I’m leaving. Whoops.

Okay, okay. Leaving is the wrong word. The people that belong in my life will be in my life, no matter where I am. Wherever I end up, I’ll always have myself. And if I am honest about who I am, I know I’ll be happy. So, maybe I am ready to go after all.

All I need to do is be happy, and do the things that make me happy. Nothing more. I’ll make my own choices and live the way I want to live. It’s going to be great.

Goodbye Moraga, maybe I’ll see you again someday.

To my friends, I will stalk you all on Facebook until you un-friend me and file multiple restraining orders. Because I care.

That said, I’m ready to go. I’ve got at least 16 new pairs of underwear in my suitcase, 30-something mismatched socks, and my waffle iron. Oberlin, here I come.

Okay, this entry got a little bit sentimental. Let’s balance it out with some bitching, yes?

<complaint>

Dearest vanilla extract,

Fuck you for costing six dollars. And for smelling so good, yet tasting so bad.

I wonder if the bad taste is the fault of the 35% alcohol concentration. Seems likely.

Still. UNCOOL.

With love and resentment,

Emily

</complaint>

…

Greg and I made a fruit tart yesterday. It changed my life in more than one way. I’d need a thesaurus to adequately describe it’s deliciousness, but I am too lazy to leave my bedroom.

It tasted good. REALLY GOOD. There.

Our parents played Rock Band while we baked. And they sucked. Horribly. It was possibly even worse than the time when my dad came home at one in the morning, completely hammered, with a insatiable urge to play DDR. That was hilarious, actually, and is probably one of my fondest memories of him.

Okay. I’m going to go pack before my mother comes home and shits a brick when she realizes I’ve done nothing.

Music Is Fantastic. That Is All.

Just kidding, that’s not all.

For the last three summers, I’ve participated in this little charity music group called LAMA, or Lamorinda Musical Artists. It’s run by a cool guy I used to go to school with, and it’s always small enough that we are able to rehearse in his living room. Which is awesome.

This summer, it was super small. Like, TINY. Maybe 10 people in the band? And that was only the day before the concert. For the weeks leading up to it, we had 5 people max, and three of them were flutes. So it was a little odd, ensemble-wise. I wasn’t sure what the status of the band would be come concert day, so Greg and I started working on a duet as did Emily and Lynn.

The flute duet I gave Emily and Lynn to play was called Allegro by Vivaldi. It was the duet that MengRuo and I have been playing together since we were sophomores. Seeing them outside practicing and laughing together totally brought me back to all the Thursday afternoons MengRuo and I spent in JM practice rooms, practicing that duet and cracking up over our mistakes. That made me smile.

So, when the concert day rolled around, we were all kind of dreading it. We didn’t think the band would do too well, and we were all kind of nervous. Looking back on it, I don’t know why I didn’t have more faith in us. Oh well. Concert time. Emily and Lynn played first. They told me they messed up, but I didn’t notice, because I was too busy smiling like an idiot. Seeing them up there performing, simply for the fun of doing it…it was awesome. And, talking to them afterwards, they were happy. I believe the gist of the conversation was:

“It’s so fun being able to play music when you aren’t afraid of messing up, when you just get to have fun and know that people like it anyway. School band concerts are never like that, Benstein is scary.”

(It’s true. I had fun at Campolindo band concerts sometimes, but only when I played flawlessly. Other times, I’d be in tears afterward. Way too much pressure.)

The wind band pieces went fabulously, in my opinion. I thought it was great, I was smiling the whole time. The notes may not have been all perfect, but damn, I was loving every second of it.

Afterward, I was talking to Emily, Lynn, and Leanne:

“So, did you guys have fun?”

“Yes, it was so much fun.”

“Want to do LAMA next year?”

“Absolutely.”

That made my night.

Then we got frozen yogurt from Papamingos, a total Pinkberry knock-off. I broke my frozen yogurt pact. Fuck. Mmm, FroYo for dinner (and dessert). Then, we went back to my house and played Rock Band. We had a blast.

While I was driving Lynn home, we blasted The Stars and Stripes Forever and sang at the top of our lungs. Fuck, that song means so much to me. I can’t even explain it.

I basically realized then that you don’t have to be perfect all the time to make a difference in someone’s life. Seeing them singing Stars and Stripes and playing that duet…I don’t know, it felt like I had left a little bit of myself with them. Like a legacy. I don’t have to play all the right notes or do all the right things, I can just be myself. Those girls have certainly inspired me, as well. It makes me so happy.

Every once in a while, I get sudden reminders of why I love music so much in the first place. This is definitely one of those.

Music is fantastic…and THAT is all.

This was not a complaint. Hot damn.

Team Spirit, Moraga-Style

For the past week, there’s really only one thing I can remember that struck me as incredibly obnoxious.

SWIM TEAMS. Actually, not the teams, or the swimmers. Their cars.

The fucking obscene amount of SUVs, painted with flashy motivational messages. God damn. As if driving weren’t annoying enough, now I have to read “GO ROBBIE! SWIM FAST! WE LUUUUV YOU!” on the back of every fucking car I’m stuck behind at a red light.

This shouldn’t annoy me so much. Really. I get it, it’s team spirit. Little kids do swim team, and they are all so excited for the big meet. I understand; I feel that. I was bitching to my boyfriend (who swam until he was 15) about this, and he informed me that it’s not supposed to be annoying, the children are showing team spirit and the parents are showing their pride in their children. And it makes sense.

BUT THOSE CARS ANNOY THE HELL OUT OF ME ANYWAY. There, I said it.

When I see all those decked-out cars, I don’t see spirit, I see Moraga moms at their best. Moraga moms, as a stereotype, are notorious for putting extreme amounts of pressure on their kid to be better than everyone else’s kid. There are exceptions (lots, actually!) but some of them are just ridiculous.

Let me do some Moragian -> English translation.

If someone’s rear window reads “Go, Jack, go! Swim fast! We love you!”, they really mean any of the following:

“Go, Jack! Swim to earn mommy’s love!”

“Go, Jack! Swim for mommy’s reputation!”

“Go, Jack! If you win, maybe tonight mommy won’t iron your face!”

“Go, Jack! Swim fast! And if all else fails, drown the opponent!”

…

Okay, okay. Maybe I’m wrong.

(I’m wrong.)

BUT I DON’T CARE. This is the vibe I get from these car messages. So to me, they don’t say “We love you!”, they say “We love you IF YOU WIN!”

And the funny thing is, no matter how wrong I am about swim teams and swim moms and Moraga, I can still try to indoctrinate you with my opinions because this is the internet. Thank god for that.

And, whoever put all those pink pirhanna pictures up, they’re cute and all, but not on every vertical surface in town. Please, as soon as you can be bothered, take them the fuck down. Thank you.

I swear, when I have children, they’re doing swim team. And they WILL like it. And when the big meet rolls around, I will write hilarious things on my windows. Ahh, the power of force.

P.S. I think swimmers are fantastic. They’re muscley and in shape and must be very dedicated to get up at 5 am for practice. These are all qualities I admire. Maybe Moraga moms should start painting pictures of their kid’s six-pack on their cars. This, to me, would be much more pleasant.

Complaint Overload

I went to LA this weekend to visit some family.

Bad, bad, BAD idea.

I’m not going to go into detail as to why, since this is the internet, but I’ll condense it in to a few key bits:

1. Dog shit

My aunt lives in a landfill. There’s dog shit everywhere. And if there’s not shit, there are shit stains. Or pee. On every fucking inch of the house. I feel contaminated with some kind of deadly fecal worm or spore just from having breathed in that air for two days.

2. “Green”

“Oh honey, M and I were watching a TV show about being GREEN. We love being GREEN. We always turn off the lights, use a cloth bag at the grocery store, and want to install solar panels, ’cause that’s the GREEN thing to do.”

“Yes, J, because being environmentally conscious is hip now.”

“Oh, no! M and I were GREEN way before it was hip. I’ve been driving a hybrid for like, a year!”

(A hybrid SUV, which carries her and her giant electric scooter that she doesn’t need, to drive a block to the supermarket. Oh J, you’re so “greeeeen”.)

“Oh, and Em, if you don’t know what career you want, how about a career that’s GREEN? Wouldn’t it be nice, making money being GREEN and helping others be GREEN?”

“I’d rather be pink.”

GREEN IS A FUCKING COLOR, WOMAN. STOP ENUNCIATING SO PROFOUNDLY. I HATE YOU.

As far as trends go, it’s cool that being environmentally friendly is one of them. Really. But it’s kind of a joke, sometimes…What about those lipstick bottles that are made from special paper with flower seeds, so that if you plant the tube, beautiful wildflowers will grow? Cool idea, yes. But let’s get real. No one plants lipstick. Can wildflowers grow in a landfill? How disappointing.

3. FroYo orgasm

Mother of God. Sunday was the last time I am ever to set foot in a Pinkberry. First, and last. So, my aunt orders these two heaping things of yogurt. And I do not want one. So:

“Don’t like it? Geez Em, I don’t know, but something about Pinkberry…it just SENDS me! *insert weird arm thrusts and oddly orgasmic noise here*.”

Sweet Jesus. Coming from her, it is the most disgusting utterance I have ever experienced. I vomited a little upon hearing that one.

“Sends me”? That, to me, just screams “sexual pleasure”. She really should have just been like “Yeah, Pinkberry gets me off.” Fetishes are nothing to be ashamed of, unless, I don’t know, they are.

I’m sorry, Pinkberry, but that is the last time you have seen my horrified face within 15 feet of any of your stores.

So, anyway. That basically sums up my weekend. There were a lot of more serious reasons why it was an awful weekend, but serious and internet don’t go well together.

But, for five glorious hours, I got to escape. I hung out with my older cousin Brandon and his girlfriend Moye, both very hilarious and generally awesome people. Which made the trip worth it, in the end, because we talked about horror movies and pro-anorexia Xanga groups. Two of my favorite topics of conversation ever, really. It was great.