Posts Tagged ‘YAY’

Happy Endings

September 10, 2008

I’m sure you’ll all be glad to know that Hector has found a home! Thanks to Facebook. It’s fantastic.

There’s another girl in my dorm who collects cacti. Facebook informed me of this. Upon inquiry, I discover that her cacti are named Henry and Herbie.


So Hector is proudly residing in her dorm room. Henry, Herbie, and Hector. A cactus family. A threesome made in heaven. And by threesome I mean like a pair except three, not like sex. Cactus sex would hurt. Especially with Herbie, he’s really spiky, and I wouldn’t want to put Hector through that. Hector’s spikes are Q-Tips, he will one day be a pleasant, gentle lover for some lucky cactus chick. Unless cacti are in to sadomasochism. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, cacti; I don’t judge. Actually, I do, but not the sexual preferences of cacti. Can you tell I’ve thought about this?

p.s. I actually haven’t until now. But, in case I drop out of college and write erotica for a living, it is a legitimate fetish to consider. I should keep notes.

Speaking of notes, did you know that after death, the heavenly spirits of ancient Chinese folk were commonly devoured by celestial wolves during their ascent to heaven?

Heaven is a dangerous place.


Mystery: Unsolved

August 24, 2008

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.

Odd Sentimentality

July 27, 2008

I am a member of the Walnut Creek Concert Band (WCCB), which is a really nice name for a group of instrumentally-challenged old folks who play really shitty music for even older folks. I always wonder why the retirement communities love our 4th of July concert so much…probably because they’re more deaf than blind, and if our band’s got one thing going for it, we all look sharp rockin’ the american flag polo. But I digress.

I’ve been a member of this heinous organization for a little over a year. And strangely, for a little over a year, my life has for some reason seemed a little gloomier than it previously had. I’m beginning to see a connection. My band director basically guilted me into playing in this band, which is understandable because I’m a doormat and I can’t say no to anything, even if saying yes tempts me to drink three gallons of bleach.

We usually play really shitty arrangements of disgusting old american tunes. Occasionally they aren’t patriotic, only shitty. Occasionally, they’re shitty arrangements of operas, or shitty arrangements that tragically destroy music that was once decent (“A Copeland Portrait?” What did you use, fingerpaint? Shit. “The Magic of Andrew Lloyd Weber?” Nice try. I can almost hear Weber projectile vomiting in his grave.) The only two constants of WCCB are these: We play shit, and we play shit really suckily. I mean this. We suck. It’s kind of like watching a person falling into a puddle and laughing, then shutting up because, in fact, the person who fell in the puddle was you. But I still laugh at us when we humiliate ourselves in public, because hey, I’m 18, and I’m kind of an ass.

We had a concert tonight. We played a bunch of shitty arrangements of operas that probably sounded nice at one point, and I don’t remember a second of it. Why? Because I was not listening, only playing along mindlessly. Why?

BECAUSE IT WAS MY LAST WCCB CONCERT EVER. That’s right. I’m going to college in a month. So naturally, I spent the duration of the hellish hour-and-a-half concert daydreaming about never having to go to WCCB ever again.

And then my dream came true.

Then, I got to hand in my folder to the music librarian, who I believe hates me with every fiber of her being.

I got to say goodbye to my stand partner, who was glad to see me go, because she’s a kindergarten teacher and talking to me during rehearsal is probably just like an extension of the work day for her.

I took a last look at the man who looks upon me as one would look upon satan or a convicted serial rapist, and all because I occasionally play Dots during rehearsal. And make fun of his bird-like qualities, but only behind his back, I swear.

Then I hugged the lead director goodbye, which was incredibly uncomfortable.

I looked around the room at all the people who will not miss me or my flute playing, either because they find me obnoxious or because they do not know I exist.

And I realized, shit, I’m really going to miss this. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’m totally going to go to WCCB rehearsals when I am back in town during breaks. I am going to dream about WCCB. I am going to idealize it, and wish I could once again be part of such a fine organization.

Thanks brain, I really appreciate the extra gush of estrogen. As if I ever needed to be more emotional.