When I was growing up I never really understood why being anorexic was so bad. I mean if your collarbones are sticking out so far you could use them as weapons then I guess knew that wasn't so great. But a lot of girls I know always had the same go-to explanation for why any given hot girl looked the way she did: "well she's super anorexic, that's why."
Well sign me up. I always wanted to be anorexic, I was just never really good at it. In high school we used to have monthly seminars on "student health" which consisted mostly of formerly anorexic students and teachers talking about their obsessive habits and how difficult it was to overcome their disorder of looking awesome. I treated these seminars not so much as precautionary info sessions but as how-to classes - jotting down notes in my head of what I needed to do to develop an eating disorder. Not to mention I have a fairly unhealthy addiction to cheese.
Unfortunately, the work load was a bit daunting: counting every calorie; eating salads with no dressing; running 20 miles a day. For me counting calories has always been more about rationalizing calories. If I look at a box and the food is really high in fat or sugar, then I just convince myself that I will go running and eat light dinner to make up for it - I then promptly forget about this, take a nap and eat a bunch of taquitos for dinner.
I guess I kept hoping that one of the speakers would finally motivate me or show me the quick and easy path to anorexia - one that didn't involve giving up cheese or developing a rigorous exercise schedule. There was the woman who talked about how she wouldn't chew gum sometimes because she couldn't afford the calories, which seemed difficult since I'm pretty sure cheese has more calories than gum. Then there was the woman who said she used to run ten miles a day and spend every spare moment in the gym. That solution really seemed like it would cut into the 2 to 300 hours of day I spend watching TV (just kidding, it's more like 6).
There was also the bulimic path but I have always had a strange aversion to throwing up, even when I have to because of Ebola or something. Throwing up just seems like a sign of weakness. Anorexia is far more appealing, it's all about strength of mind.
Girl after girl I met with anorexia all pretty much did they same thing, ate a lot of salads, worked out all the time, went years without even thinking of going to MacDonald's... It's just not work that I think I'm cut out for. It really does take quite a strong mind - and perhaps a few psychological problems - to become a truly successful anorexic. As for the rest of us, there is always the delicious taste of MacDonald's new triple cheeseburgers, now 2 for $3!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Poker > Sex (a.k.a. How One Develops a Gambling Addiction)
I was planning on writing a different entry tonight but now I want to write about how I just tripled my money in a cash game of poker and now I am really really really really really really happy. So instead I'm going to write about how awesome poker is.. or more specifically how awesome winning at poker is.
Winning at poker feels so good that it makes you feel high for at least 24 hours if not more. I would say the only good feeling that lasts longer is having an obsessive crush on someone, but that always ends badly. The feeling of winning at poker never goes sour. Even if you lose the next time you play (we'll get to that later), that's a totally different game and you can compartmentalize it in a completely separate place from your winning at poker feeling, which you can bottle up and make last forever.
Because you only have to win one time at poker to have that feeling can last you through several bad games. You can always justify losing, and chalk up winning to your skills and cunning. Of course for most people that's not true. Luck has a lot to do with it. The very best poker players are so skilled that they barely need to rely on luck at all, but for everyone in the tier of poker I play in (which is most poker players), well most of us are just about the same.. some a little better than others, but anyone can win a poker game just as easily as we can all lose one.
But winning feels so good that you completely forget about the mistakes you made and focus on how well you played those few hands that earned you $40 (not exactly high stakes poker). That high can carry you through all of the shitty hands you played when you were getting frustrated and went all in with a pair of 7s just to scare someone off who then they took all your money because they had three queens and it was obvious to everyone but you.
And when you lose at poker... well it feels rather humiliating. It is a pride-killing blow, especially if you are under the impression that you are a great poker player and not, like the rest of us, merely lucky every once in a while.
Whenever I lose at poker I replay each of the mistakes I made, particularly the last one, and try to justify my actions. The process starts with "No, that was a really smart play. The odds were in your favor. You had to call, you had him beat until the end. It was just luck you should have won that hand" and then turns into "you would have spent that $20 on drinks if you hadn't played poker. You'll just not buy groceries tomorrow to make up for it, you can live on rice for a few days can't you?"
And what makes the difference between those two feelings is usually something so small. Your entire disposition can be drastically altered by just these one or two cards.
Tonight that card was a 9. I was up by ten dollars in what we had determined was the second-to-last hand. I got pocket Jacks and then the flop showed three cards lower than mine, 10, 8, 7. I was betting against one of my friends and it was quickly escalating. Another 8 came out on the turn. I thought I had it in the bag. There was no way he had a third 8 with all that betting. I went all in.
And then he called. At this point I was shaking uncontrollably because that is what I do when I bet money (even if I think I'm going to win a hand). Evolution failed me with that trait.
My friend flipped his cards. Pocket Queens.
The difference between going home with nothing and going home with triple the money I started with rested on one card. I could only win if I flipped a Jack (trip Jacks) or a 9 (straight). My friend flipped the next card, and there was the 9.
Unless you are also a poker addict I'm not sure I can describe how good you feel when that happens. It's like a mixture of relief, shock and unbelievable exuberance. I've never done heroine or cocaine or extacy, but I can't imagine how any of them can make you feel as good as it felt to see that 9 flip.
And I was playing well before that. I had stayed in and slowly accumulated cash and I would have been fine going home with what I had before I got those pocket Jacks. And if I had lost all my money I would have stared off into space the entire ride home, trying to tell myself that it was not a stupid call - I made the right decision and I could not have known he had pocket Queens; I am a good poker player and I will win money next time... and none of it would have made me feel better.
And the probability of that card coming up was SO unbelievably slim.
But it did.. I didn't lose. I won. And I am so fucking happy.
Even if it was just because of a little luck.
Winning at poker feels so good that it makes you feel high for at least 24 hours if not more. I would say the only good feeling that lasts longer is having an obsessive crush on someone, but that always ends badly. The feeling of winning at poker never goes sour. Even if you lose the next time you play (we'll get to that later), that's a totally different game and you can compartmentalize it in a completely separate place from your winning at poker feeling, which you can bottle up and make last forever.
Because you only have to win one time at poker to have that feeling can last you through several bad games. You can always justify losing, and chalk up winning to your skills and cunning. Of course for most people that's not true. Luck has a lot to do with it. The very best poker players are so skilled that they barely need to rely on luck at all, but for everyone in the tier of poker I play in (which is most poker players), well most of us are just about the same.. some a little better than others, but anyone can win a poker game just as easily as we can all lose one.
But winning feels so good that you completely forget about the mistakes you made and focus on how well you played those few hands that earned you $40 (not exactly high stakes poker). That high can carry you through all of the shitty hands you played when you were getting frustrated and went all in with a pair of 7s just to scare someone off who then they took all your money because they had three queens and it was obvious to everyone but you.
And when you lose at poker... well it feels rather humiliating. It is a pride-killing blow, especially if you are under the impression that you are a great poker player and not, like the rest of us, merely lucky every once in a while.
Whenever I lose at poker I replay each of the mistakes I made, particularly the last one, and try to justify my actions. The process starts with "No, that was a really smart play. The odds were in your favor. You had to call, you had him beat until the end. It was just luck you should have won that hand" and then turns into "you would have spent that $20 on drinks if you hadn't played poker. You'll just not buy groceries tomorrow to make up for it, you can live on rice for a few days can't you?"
And what makes the difference between those two feelings is usually something so small. Your entire disposition can be drastically altered by just these one or two cards.
Tonight that card was a 9. I was up by ten dollars in what we had determined was the second-to-last hand. I got pocket Jacks and then the flop showed three cards lower than mine, 10, 8, 7. I was betting against one of my friends and it was quickly escalating. Another 8 came out on the turn. I thought I had it in the bag. There was no way he had a third 8 with all that betting. I went all in.
And then he called. At this point I was shaking uncontrollably because that is what I do when I bet money (even if I think I'm going to win a hand). Evolution failed me with that trait.
My friend flipped his cards. Pocket Queens.
The difference between going home with nothing and going home with triple the money I started with rested on one card. I could only win if I flipped a Jack (trip Jacks) or a 9 (straight). My friend flipped the next card, and there was the 9.
Unless you are also a poker addict I'm not sure I can describe how good you feel when that happens. It's like a mixture of relief, shock and unbelievable exuberance. I've never done heroine or cocaine or extacy, but I can't imagine how any of them can make you feel as good as it felt to see that 9 flip.
And I was playing well before that. I had stayed in and slowly accumulated cash and I would have been fine going home with what I had before I got those pocket Jacks. And if I had lost all my money I would have stared off into space the entire ride home, trying to tell myself that it was not a stupid call - I made the right decision and I could not have known he had pocket Queens; I am a good poker player and I will win money next time... and none of it would have made me feel better.
And the probability of that card coming up was SO unbelievably slim.
But it did.. I didn't lose. I won. And I am so fucking happy.
Even if it was just because of a little luck.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Crazy Book
I keep a diary. I do this because if I didn't keep a diary I would probably turn into a crazy person.
About 99.2% of the time when one of my friends finds out I have a diary they ask "ooooh can I read it!?" And the answer is no. No, you cannot read it, and that goes for everyone. It isn't as if there are any secrets in there. I'm not badmouthing my friends behind their backs and three-way calling them with their boyfriends on the other line (at least not since I was twelve years old). I tell my friends what is going on with me for the most part. I tell different people different things based on how well I know them and what I usually talk to them about.
It's not like that. My diary is not full of secrets. It's full of crazy.
My diary is where I unleash crazy me. I don't like to get angry in front of people. I don't like to get sad in front of them. I generally do not like sharing any emotions with people aside from happy and giggles. Sometimes I get a bit emo and quiet but that's as bad as it gets. And that means that I tend to develop some pent up anger. I get rid of it in two ways: I either rant to close friends (pretty mild stuff), or I write in my diary (crazytown).
I do not want these diaries handed down to posterity. I might keep them with me so I can read them again when I'm older and have a good laugh, but if I ever suspect that I might be about to die, I'm going to burn them all. Diary me is crazy, irrational and almost the complete opposite of real life me. Diary me talks about boys almost 100% of the time. Diary me has filled up almost an entire book with entries about one guy... not once, but twice (2 different guys, at least I'm not that crazy).
Real life me is ashamed of diary me. I want to slap diary me across the face and yell, "GET IT TOGETHER, WOMAN!" But alas, if diary me didn't exist then I wouldn't be a rational, well-rounded person.
Everyone has a little crazy in them. Some of us want to share it with the world and some of us make a conscious decision not to. I don't really understand why some people choose to rant about ex-boyfriends on public online forums, but the rant itself... not too unusual. All I'm saying is if you don't think you have some crazy in you then you are probably the biggest crazy you know.
In any case, I'm not very well represented in these books. I once made the stupid decision of letting a couple of my friends read one in middle school. Actually one of my friends stole the diary from out of my room and I caught her with it when I was over at her house one day and this piece of paper slipped out that I knew had stashed in my diary and then we got into a big fight... my life was so much more exciting back then. Anyway it did not turn out well - they each finished the book and looked up at me with an expression of horror that I wasn't really expecting. I just hadn't given any of the entries a second read. Little did I know that this is where I had been hiding all of my most disturbing, embarrassing qualities for years.
Still, although it doesn't really represent me the way I want it to - I have other things that I'd rather have people read to get an idea of who I am - my crazy book is really important for my well-being. At the end of every crazy rant I do usually come to some rational conclusions, and that is what everyone else sees; not a stable, level-headed person, but the end result of hours and hours of crazy exhausted on paper so I can go about my regular life like a sane person.
About 99.2% of the time when one of my friends finds out I have a diary they ask "ooooh can I read it!?" And the answer is no. No, you cannot read it, and that goes for everyone. It isn't as if there are any secrets in there. I'm not badmouthing my friends behind their backs and three-way calling them with their boyfriends on the other line (at least not since I was twelve years old). I tell my friends what is going on with me for the most part. I tell different people different things based on how well I know them and what I usually talk to them about.
It's not like that. My diary is not full of secrets. It's full of crazy.
My diary is where I unleash crazy me. I don't like to get angry in front of people. I don't like to get sad in front of them. I generally do not like sharing any emotions with people aside from happy and giggles. Sometimes I get a bit emo and quiet but that's as bad as it gets. And that means that I tend to develop some pent up anger. I get rid of it in two ways: I either rant to close friends (pretty mild stuff), or I write in my diary (crazytown).
I do not want these diaries handed down to posterity. I might keep them with me so I can read them again when I'm older and have a good laugh, but if I ever suspect that I might be about to die, I'm going to burn them all. Diary me is crazy, irrational and almost the complete opposite of real life me. Diary me talks about boys almost 100% of the time. Diary me has filled up almost an entire book with entries about one guy... not once, but twice (2 different guys, at least I'm not that crazy).
Real life me is ashamed of diary me. I want to slap diary me across the face and yell, "GET IT TOGETHER, WOMAN!" But alas, if diary me didn't exist then I wouldn't be a rational, well-rounded person.
Everyone has a little crazy in them. Some of us want to share it with the world and some of us make a conscious decision not to. I don't really understand why some people choose to rant about ex-boyfriends on public online forums, but the rant itself... not too unusual. All I'm saying is if you don't think you have some crazy in you then you are probably the biggest crazy you know.
In any case, I'm not very well represented in these books. I once made the stupid decision of letting a couple of my friends read one in middle school. Actually one of my friends stole the diary from out of my room and I caught her with it when I was over at her house one day and this piece of paper slipped out that I knew had stashed in my diary and then we got into a big fight... my life was so much more exciting back then. Anyway it did not turn out well - they each finished the book and looked up at me with an expression of horror that I wasn't really expecting. I just hadn't given any of the entries a second read. Little did I know that this is where I had been hiding all of my most disturbing, embarrassing qualities for years.
Still, although it doesn't really represent me the way I want it to - I have other things that I'd rather have people read to get an idea of who I am - my crazy book is really important for my well-being. At the end of every crazy rant I do usually come to some rational conclusions, and that is what everyone else sees; not a stable, level-headed person, but the end result of hours and hours of crazy exhausted on paper so I can go about my regular life like a sane person.
My Creativity is 100% Borrowed
So I have decided to start writing again and I have changed my blog layout... mostly because I have been reading this blog by Allie Brosh nonstop for the past week or so. She is very funny and lot more talented than me. But that's what almost always inspires me to start writing again. Usually I read another blog and thing "OMG this is funny! I should do this!" Then I copy people.
Except no one reads my blog so it's ok.
Well, whatever I'm going to keep writing it anyway. Right now I'm starving and I haven't eaten anything because I went running and when I got back I spent about 3 hours on Paint making my cool heading.
P.S. My heading is really cool. If you will notice it features all kinds of characters form my blog: South Park me playing Mario Galaxy on Wii and eating a cheeseburger (a McDonaldsdouble triple cheeseburger probably), my cat May (who is not mentioned in the blog but I will write about her eventually because she's mean as shit), evil Mario plant, BTK killer, and thanksgiving turkey that gets slaughtered by Sarah Palin (loose interpretation)
Snack attack.
Except no one reads my blog so it's ok.
Well, whatever I'm going to keep writing it anyway. Right now I'm starving and I haven't eaten anything because I went running and when I got back I spent about 3 hours on Paint making my cool heading.
P.S. My heading is really cool. If you will notice it features all kinds of characters form my blog: South Park me playing Mario Galaxy on Wii and eating a cheeseburger (a McDonalds
Snack attack.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
College was
I warn you, this little poem is going to be both cheesy and nostalgic.
The general theme: I miss CMC.
So to commemorate 6:01.. now that I'm no longer there to kick off the year..
This is what CMC/college was to me:
College was watching my gpa take a slight dive after playing Beirut with Jeff and Tommy almost every night for four months.
College was hungover McDonalds runs every Sunday morning with Simon.
College was drinking 40s and dancing around to the same overplayed party mix in that cramped little room in Berger with my freshman six.
College was that time I chugged a 40, jumped up and down and threw up all over that cramped little room in Berger with my freshman six.
College was a long string of dramatic casual-yet-deeply-intimate romances and one really long, really great romance.
College was eating so much spicy food in a allotted time period that I threw up or watched someone else throw up.
College was the epic ramen noodle spicy food olympics where Jeff projectile vomited into his own bowl.
College was bowling on Wednesday nights... and Jack impressions.
College was getting stuck in weird, uncomfortable and slightly dangerous situations in foreign countries with my some of my best friends.
College was weird, pointless study abroad projects that were both unbearable and hilarious in nature.
College was having drunken public conversations about sex in Muslim countries (while eating patata).
College was stalking Shelby halfway around the world and back only to have her stalk me after graduation.
College was Will's infamous impression of our Palestinian Arabic teacher inviting everyone to a girls' party in a German accent.
College was Morgan impressions.
College was that one story about Anna freshman year that I'm not allowed to tell.
College was Anna's bitch face.
College was spending several hours drinking smoothies at brunch after a long, ridiculous night.
College was watching America's Best Dance Crew with my roommates every Thursday night.
College was convincing Tommy to break dance at parties.
College was Tommy Liu impressions... college was full of good impressions.
College was do everyone think I gay? and other great things that Tommy never actually said.
College was sending Kenisha no-reason text messages several times a day for four years.
College was making fun of Kenisha for being loud, throwing her shit everywhere, having crushes on effeminate men, exaggerating pretty much everything she says, getting into TV shows five or ten years after they've reached the height of their popularity, falling over when startled, not being able to raise one eyebrow and looking stupid for trying, never admitting to being inebriated when she is clearly inebriated and much, much more.. for four years.
College was Kenisha not killing me for making fun of her for four years.
College was a wonderful four-year roomie relationship... the longest relationship either one of us has ever had and probably will ever have.
College was living with four people in a double room for about two years.
College was one retarded snake.
College was rugby songs, rugby games, rugby people, and Leslie J.
College was Thursday night poker.
College was full of 90s music and people who got sick of me playing it.
College was the Apache.
College was that one great party we hosted freshman year and that other great party we hosted senior year.
College was trying to host other parties only to end up drinking alone with Simon.
College was just two guys having a good time.
College was watching the same episodes of South Park, Arrested Development, 30 Rock and Stella so many times they almost weren't funny anymore... but then they still were.
College was actually discovering Arrested Development, 30 Rock and Stella... South Park goes way back.
College was watching my first episode of Arrested Development with Athena freshman year.
College was going back to blockbuster with Athena, renting the rest of seasons 1 and 2 and watching every other episode of Arrested Development that same day.
College was the landmines game and all the inside jokes that came out of playing it.
College was that one time Jeff drove us out to Newport, almost killed us on the way there, and then left us to fight amongst ourselves about how we were going to to get home until we almost killed each other.
College was planning Halloween costumes months in advance.
College was trips to Venice beach, the Santa Monica Pier, LA and of course San Diego.
College was passionate drinking competitions against obliviously offensive conservative douchebags.
College was losing passionate drinking competitions to obliviously offensive conservative douchebags and stewing with resentment.
College was sinking that last cup in those one or two sweet victories that at the time felt like inspiring triumphs in a losing war against all that is wrong and evil in the world.
The phrase "wear it _____" featured prominently in college e.g. wear it career services, wear it fashion school, wear it dignity.
At some point I guess college was also about work, although I remember little about it now and will probably remember none of it in ten years.
College was about small things that still make me laugh.
College was about great friends who still make me laugh.
College was a good time.
I miss it already.
Clearly I've forgotten about 17,000 things... my bad
The general theme: I miss CMC.
So to commemorate 6:01.. now that I'm no longer there to kick off the year..
This is what CMC/college was to me:
College was watching my gpa take a slight dive after playing Beirut with Jeff and Tommy almost every night for four months.
College was hungover McDonalds runs every Sunday morning with Simon.
College was drinking 40s and dancing around to the same overplayed party mix in that cramped little room in Berger with my freshman six.
College was that time I chugged a 40, jumped up and down and threw up all over that cramped little room in Berger with my freshman six.
College was a long string of dramatic casual-yet-deeply-intimate romances and one really long, really great romance.
College was eating so much spicy food in a allotted time period that I threw up or watched someone else throw up.
College was the epic ramen noodle spicy food olympics where Jeff projectile vomited into his own bowl.
College was bowling on Wednesday nights... and Jack impressions.
College was getting stuck in weird, uncomfortable and slightly dangerous situations in foreign countries with my some of my best friends.
College was weird, pointless study abroad projects that were both unbearable and hilarious in nature.
College was having drunken public conversations about sex in Muslim countries (while eating patata).
College was stalking Shelby halfway around the world and back only to have her stalk me after graduation.
College was Will's infamous impression of our Palestinian Arabic teacher inviting everyone to a girls' party in a German accent.
College was Morgan impressions.
College was that one story about Anna freshman year that I'm not allowed to tell.
College was Anna's bitch face.
College was spending several hours drinking smoothies at brunch after a long, ridiculous night.
College was watching America's Best Dance Crew with my roommates every Thursday night.
College was convincing Tommy to break dance at parties.
College was Tommy Liu impressions... college was full of good impressions.
College was do everyone think I gay? and other great things that Tommy never actually said.
College was sending Kenisha no-reason text messages several times a day for four years.
College was making fun of Kenisha for being loud, throwing her shit everywhere, having crushes on effeminate men, exaggerating pretty much everything she says, getting into TV shows five or ten years after they've reached the height of their popularity, falling over when startled, not being able to raise one eyebrow and looking stupid for trying, never admitting to being inebriated when she is clearly inebriated and much, much more.. for four years.
College was Kenisha not killing me for making fun of her for four years.
College was a wonderful four-year roomie relationship... the longest relationship either one of us has ever had and probably will ever have.
College was living with four people in a double room for about two years.
College was one retarded snake.
College was rugby songs, rugby games, rugby people, and Leslie J.
College was Thursday night poker.
College was full of 90s music and people who got sick of me playing it.
College was the Apache.
College was that one great party we hosted freshman year and that other great party we hosted senior year.
College was trying to host other parties only to end up drinking alone with Simon.
College was just two guys having a good time.
College was watching the same episodes of South Park, Arrested Development, 30 Rock and Stella so many times they almost weren't funny anymore... but then they still were.
College was actually discovering Arrested Development, 30 Rock and Stella... South Park goes way back.
College was watching my first episode of Arrested Development with Athena freshman year.
College was going back to blockbuster with Athena, renting the rest of seasons 1 and 2 and watching every other episode of Arrested Development that same day.
College was the landmines game and all the inside jokes that came out of playing it.
College was that one time Jeff drove us out to Newport, almost killed us on the way there, and then left us to fight amongst ourselves about how we were going to to get home until we almost killed each other.
College was planning Halloween costumes months in advance.
College was trips to Venice beach, the Santa Monica Pier, LA and of course San Diego.
College was passionate drinking competitions against obliviously offensive conservative douchebags.
College was losing passionate drinking competitions to obliviously offensive conservative douchebags and stewing with resentment.
College was sinking that last cup in those one or two sweet victories that at the time felt like inspiring triumphs in a losing war against all that is wrong and evil in the world.
The phrase "wear it _____" featured prominently in college e.g. wear it career services, wear it fashion school, wear it dignity.
At some point I guess college was also about work, although I remember little about it now and will probably remember none of it in ten years.
College was about small things that still make me laugh.
College was about great friends who still make me laugh.
College was a good time.
I miss it already.
Clearly I've forgotten about 17,000 things... my bad
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
My ultimate guide to creepy stalking after the first "date" if you can call it that
As a disclaimer I want to go ahead and point out that this is satire and that I am not criminally insane. If you are an attractive straight male who shares my sense of humor, I promise I will not do any of these things to you, and if I do I promise you will never find out about it.
Strategy: Lets say you recently slept with a friend of a friend who you find very attractive but you don't know that much about. You're looking to have a big crush and obsess over someone cause it's been a while since the last guy you obsessed over stopped calling you so you want to find out the best possible way to just build up as strong of a connection as you can to someone who otherwise would be more or less a complete stranger. Well, here you have it: my foolproof method for really making sure that when this budding failure of a relationship doesn't work out that you experience the maximum amount of deeply personal pain and withdrawal.
1. Facebook, facebook, facebook. Whoever said that looking through every picture of the person you like several times a day was a bad idea was just being really careful about it. When you are sure no one you know is around, perhaps when you are in a public place full of strangers like Starbucks or even when you are just alone in your room, this is really the best time to really focus on flipping through not only pictures of the person but also pictures that they have posted as well. Remember, the funny comments that the person writes about each of their own pictures will give you more of a personal connection than just looking at pictures of the person you like from someone else's facebook albums. Also feel free to pick out a few favorites e.g. oh this person really looks good in a hat, and return to those pictures every once in a while to really lock in that obsessive attachment.
2. Read some of the things they have written. Again, facebook is a good source for a lot of these things. A lot of people have links to their blogs or other websites where you can find things that they have written (if they wrote opinion pieces for their college newspaper perhaps). Also make sure to skim through the things they have written in their facebook info section so you can pick out all your common interests, real or imagined, and build up even further the idea that this is the one and only person for you. All this information is very useful when it comes to picking the right conversation topics and revisiting old movies and songs that you forgot about to remind you just how similar and compatible the two of you really are.
3. Pay more attention to his friends. Even when he is not around it is always a good idea to make sure all his friends love you so they can go back and tell him how awesome it is that he hooked up with you. You should treat any time with friends as an audition for the role of serious girlfriend. Also hanging out frequently with his friends will make you grow attached to them as well, making it even more difficult to sever the emotional ties to your new relationship.
4. Save his texts. You never know when he will stop texting so it is really a good idea to save any messages that he sends you (email, text, missed call list, ect.) so you can go back and look at them when communication slows down. This way you can remind yourself how cute and thoughtful he is even when he isn't exhibiting those traits at this particular juncture in your relationship.
5. Daydream. The best way to really lock into a shaky relationship is to imagine how perfect that relationship will be in a few months or say, ten years. Imagining marriage proposals and wedding celebrations is really the best way to do this but imagining how your children will look will do just as well. Any time you spend imagining the perfect life that the two of you have together will convince you even further that the relationship you have now is just as perfect and promising.
Well there you have it. Before long you too can spend several hours at a time watching the clock and counting the minutes since you sent your last text message while you formulate a clever way to send a second one, or perhaps call because some people just don't text, right? Keep informed with more of my relationship tips about strategies for showing up in the same places, the tricky 3 am text message or proper poking decorum!
Strategy: Lets say you recently slept with a friend of a friend who you find very attractive but you don't know that much about. You're looking to have a big crush and obsess over someone cause it's been a while since the last guy you obsessed over stopped calling you so you want to find out the best possible way to just build up as strong of a connection as you can to someone who otherwise would be more or less a complete stranger. Well, here you have it: my foolproof method for really making sure that when this budding failure of a relationship doesn't work out that you experience the maximum amount of deeply personal pain and withdrawal.
1. Facebook, facebook, facebook. Whoever said that looking through every picture of the person you like several times a day was a bad idea was just being really careful about it. When you are sure no one you know is around, perhaps when you are in a public place full of strangers like Starbucks or even when you are just alone in your room, this is really the best time to really focus on flipping through not only pictures of the person but also pictures that they have posted as well. Remember, the funny comments that the person writes about each of their own pictures will give you more of a personal connection than just looking at pictures of the person you like from someone else's facebook albums. Also feel free to pick out a few favorites e.g. oh this person really looks good in a hat, and return to those pictures every once in a while to really lock in that obsessive attachment.
2. Read some of the things they have written. Again, facebook is a good source for a lot of these things. A lot of people have links to their blogs or other websites where you can find things that they have written (if they wrote opinion pieces for their college newspaper perhaps). Also make sure to skim through the things they have written in their facebook info section so you can pick out all your common interests, real or imagined, and build up even further the idea that this is the one and only person for you. All this information is very useful when it comes to picking the right conversation topics and revisiting old movies and songs that you forgot about to remind you just how similar and compatible the two of you really are.
3. Pay more attention to his friends. Even when he is not around it is always a good idea to make sure all his friends love you so they can go back and tell him how awesome it is that he hooked up with you. You should treat any time with friends as an audition for the role of serious girlfriend. Also hanging out frequently with his friends will make you grow attached to them as well, making it even more difficult to sever the emotional ties to your new relationship.
4. Save his texts. You never know when he will stop texting so it is really a good idea to save any messages that he sends you (email, text, missed call list, ect.) so you can go back and look at them when communication slows down. This way you can remind yourself how cute and thoughtful he is even when he isn't exhibiting those traits at this particular juncture in your relationship.
5. Daydream. The best way to really lock into a shaky relationship is to imagine how perfect that relationship will be in a few months or say, ten years. Imagining marriage proposals and wedding celebrations is really the best way to do this but imagining how your children will look will do just as well. Any time you spend imagining the perfect life that the two of you have together will convince you even further that the relationship you have now is just as perfect and promising.
Well there you have it. Before long you too can spend several hours at a time watching the clock and counting the minutes since you sent your last text message while you formulate a clever way to send a second one, or perhaps call because some people just don't text, right? Keep informed with more of my relationship tips about strategies for showing up in the same places, the tricky 3 am text message or proper poking decorum!
Monday, August 3, 2009
Home Sketchy Home
So I've decided to move to SE Washington DC. Most people I say that to automatically fear for my life although notably, ever since parents found out that my moving there gets them off the hook for cosigning a lease they've been adamant supporters of the plan. I don't necessarily think the neighborhood is unsafe but I still felt somewhat irritated with them for being less than concerned about the safety of their oldest child.
"But.. it's across the street from project housing"
"Well you won't be the only unemployed person in the neighborhood"
Point taken.
Actually I also have the option of moving into a large house in Columbia Heights with a bunch of white hipsters but I've decided against it. I have lived in nice places and I have lived in total shitholes and truthfully.. unfortunately.. I prefer the shitholes.
The house I'm going to move into doesn't even compare to some of the other places I've lived. The one that tops the list has to be the apartment I shared with three people the summer I lived in Jordan. To start with, this apartment was not made for four people.. nor was it made for seven people to live in as we did one week in July. I had my own room with a mattress and a night stand and so did my roommate Kelsey but she used the mattress as a dresser and slept on the couch which was arguably more comfortable. Our third roommate, Christopher, slept on an old mattress in an enclosed balcony-turned-bedroom and Shawn lived in the hallway... I'm not exaggerating, he lived in the little hallway/den area right outside my room and slept with half his body on one couch with his feat on a separate armchair. Our occasional couch-surfers (one of my roommates belonged to an online network of people who sleep on strangers' couches) slept in our living room which was basically just a large room with one couch an armchair and a lot of cat piss.
Oh. We also had a cat. She was the kitten of a cat that lived upstairs with our neighbor, Hakim. According to Hakim the mother cat had eaten every other kitten in her litter and three weeks after he thought all of the kittens had died he found her in a pile of trash behind the sink or something. We named her Kitha, which means "etcetera" in Arabic and sounds a lot like "kitty" in English. To her credit, she got very cute and fluffy after we actually started feeding her but at first, well it was not hard to believe that she had survived for three weeks on nothing but trash.
To accommodate our new pet we bought some cat food and filled a rusting baking pan with sand from our neighbor's small garden as a makeshift kitty litter, not fully realizing how difficult it would be to maintain or how frequently we would have to change that sand to keep Kitha happy. Since her mother had cannibalized her siblings and hoarded all the cat food available in the upstairs apartment Kitha was not accustomed to living in such splendor and consequently ate her weight in food every few hours. The first couple of weeks after moving in, before she really gained any weight, she walked around with a skeletal frame and protruding belly twice as wide as the rest of her body. Eventually she learned that she didn't have to wolf down every bite of every meal to survive. But for those first few weeks, as nature has it, everything that went in eventually had to come out. In other words, she. shat. everywhere.
Her kitty litter was not nearly big enough to contain all the waste this cat produced and we were all far to lazy and disgusted by the whole thing to really clean it that frequently. Therefore, Kitha found other places to relieve herself. She shat on piles of clothes, she shat in the corners of rooms, she pissed in my bed about five or six times (once she did it as I was changing the sheets from the previous time she pissed in the bed); she pissed in Christopher's bed another five of six times and once she defecated on the Jordanian flag. It was a nylon flag that one of us bought in downtown Amman and we had stupidly thrown it on the couch, automatically forming an inviting, crumpled toilet for our kitten to bury her feces in.
And that really only begins to skim the surface of the things that were wrong with this apartment.
To begin with, almost all the windows were broken, which would have been fine since we had no air conditioning. I mean, they weren't the most decorative windows. Our landlord had sealed most of the holes up with packing tape and when I accidentally put my hand through one of the windows I did the same thing and he never even noticed. But they would have been fine if it weren't for all the mosquitoes... At night those holes became the kiss of death for me and my insect-friendly skin. Every night I had to choose between suffocating under the heat of a long-sleeved shirt, long pants and thick covers or getting eaten alive by an armada of blood-sucking heathen. I stupidly chose both.
To cope with my lack of exposed flesh the mosquitoes merely attacked my hands, which happen to land conveniently near my face when I sleep. Night after night the sound of ominous buzzing jolted me awake and kept me that way, full of fear and adrenaline, not knowing when or where to expect the next attack. Every morning I counted the fresh bite marks on each hand. By the end of the summer I had 32 bites on the left one and 26 on the right. Anyone who shook my hand instinctively pulled back a bit upon feeling the bumpy scarred surface as I explained over and over that this was the fault of the "garris" and not an infectious disease.
But both the mosquito infestation and piles cat feces paled in comparison to what happened with our water. Water is a scarce commodity in Jordan so in order to conserve it a lot of buildings have automatic water tanks that only dispense a set amount of water every week starting Tuesday at midnight. The reason I know this is because one week my roommate (no blame games but it was not me) left one of the water taps in our kitchen sink in the on position. It was broken so at first we didn't notice it but that night, while we slept, it started working again and by the time we woke up our entire week's supply of water had vanished down the drain. That morning we found the water faucet gushing with our last few gallons. It was Thursday. We ran out of water some time that night.
People often say that you don't know what you have until it's gone. That may be true of love or friendship or family but take it from me, losing all those things pales in comparison to losing all your water. If I had to choose between losing a spouse or never getting to shower again, hand me the gun. The worst part is that at the time we had no idea when the water would come back on. Every few hours one of us would go into the bathroom, turn on the sink and come back out into a room of hopeful, desperate faces, shaking our heads in defeat. We grew dirtier and smellier. We bought bottles of water to wash our hands and eventually I caved and used one to wash my hair. Unfortunately we were all living on a budget so we really couldn't keep splurging for gallon after gallon of bottled water.
After three days none of us could use the toilet. We couldn't even bear to open the lid. We planned our day around our bowel movements, making sure to leave the house early in the morning or after a heavy meal.
I think the night we got our fresh supply of water ranks as one of the happiest days in my life. Even though we had settled in for the night and we were all ready to go to sleep, the second one of us discovered the running sink we celebrated like there was no tomorrow. We took showers, we washed the dishes, we cleaned our clothes, we brushed our teeth and we flushed the toilet as many times as we wanted! From then on we meticulously monitored our water usage. If someone announced that they were going to take a shower the rest of us exchanged suspicious glances until the person conceded that they had just showered two days ago and could probably go a little longer. Leave the water running while you brushed your teeth and you might find that someone had "accidentally" left the door to your room open for the cat to romp and piss in. I like to think that the experience taught me that if I ever have to be homeless I would probably survive.
There are a million other stories I could tell about that apartment, like the way we had to tie a long plastic bag to a faucet above the bathtub to run water into our washing machine or the time some shady guy kept ringing my doorbell and kicked in my door as I was peering through the eyehole. Turns out he wanted to pass out fliers. I did not take any on account of my near-broken nose.
I guess the whole experience proves more than anything that who you live with matters more than where you live. The summer I spent living in that shithole (you could really take that to mean either the apartment or Jordan).. it was the best summer of my life. I miss that place more than I can explain and if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't change a thing.
"But.. it's across the street from project housing"
"Well you won't be the only unemployed person in the neighborhood"
Point taken.
Actually I also have the option of moving into a large house in Columbia Heights with a bunch of white hipsters but I've decided against it. I have lived in nice places and I have lived in total shitholes and truthfully.. unfortunately.. I prefer the shitholes.
The house I'm going to move into doesn't even compare to some of the other places I've lived. The one that tops the list has to be the apartment I shared with three people the summer I lived in Jordan. To start with, this apartment was not made for four people.. nor was it made for seven people to live in as we did one week in July. I had my own room with a mattress and a night stand and so did my roommate Kelsey but she used the mattress as a dresser and slept on the couch which was arguably more comfortable. Our third roommate, Christopher, slept on an old mattress in an enclosed balcony-turned-bedroom and Shawn lived in the hallway... I'm not exaggerating, he lived in the little hallway/den area right outside my room and slept with half his body on one couch with his feat on a separate armchair. Our occasional couch-surfers (one of my roommates belonged to an online network of people who sleep on strangers' couches) slept in our living room which was basically just a large room with one couch an armchair and a lot of cat piss.
Oh. We also had a cat. She was the kitten of a cat that lived upstairs with our neighbor, Hakim. According to Hakim the mother cat had eaten every other kitten in her litter and three weeks after he thought all of the kittens had died he found her in a pile of trash behind the sink or something. We named her Kitha, which means "etcetera" in Arabic and sounds a lot like "kitty" in English. To her credit, she got very cute and fluffy after we actually started feeding her but at first, well it was not hard to believe that she had survived for three weeks on nothing but trash.
To accommodate our new pet we bought some cat food and filled a rusting baking pan with sand from our neighbor's small garden as a makeshift kitty litter, not fully realizing how difficult it would be to maintain or how frequently we would have to change that sand to keep Kitha happy. Since her mother had cannibalized her siblings and hoarded all the cat food available in the upstairs apartment Kitha was not accustomed to living in such splendor and consequently ate her weight in food every few hours. The first couple of weeks after moving in, before she really gained any weight, she walked around with a skeletal frame and protruding belly twice as wide as the rest of her body. Eventually she learned that she didn't have to wolf down every bite of every meal to survive. But for those first few weeks, as nature has it, everything that went in eventually had to come out. In other words, she. shat. everywhere.
Her kitty litter was not nearly big enough to contain all the waste this cat produced and we were all far to lazy and disgusted by the whole thing to really clean it that frequently. Therefore, Kitha found other places to relieve herself. She shat on piles of clothes, she shat in the corners of rooms, she pissed in my bed about five or six times (once she did it as I was changing the sheets from the previous time she pissed in the bed); she pissed in Christopher's bed another five of six times and once she defecated on the Jordanian flag. It was a nylon flag that one of us bought in downtown Amman and we had stupidly thrown it on the couch, automatically forming an inviting, crumpled toilet for our kitten to bury her feces in.
And that really only begins to skim the surface of the things that were wrong with this apartment.
To begin with, almost all the windows were broken, which would have been fine since we had no air conditioning. I mean, they weren't the most decorative windows. Our landlord had sealed most of the holes up with packing tape and when I accidentally put my hand through one of the windows I did the same thing and he never even noticed. But they would have been fine if it weren't for all the mosquitoes... At night those holes became the kiss of death for me and my insect-friendly skin. Every night I had to choose between suffocating under the heat of a long-sleeved shirt, long pants and thick covers or getting eaten alive by an armada of blood-sucking heathen. I stupidly chose both.
To cope with my lack of exposed flesh the mosquitoes merely attacked my hands, which happen to land conveniently near my face when I sleep. Night after night the sound of ominous buzzing jolted me awake and kept me that way, full of fear and adrenaline, not knowing when or where to expect the next attack. Every morning I counted the fresh bite marks on each hand. By the end of the summer I had 32 bites on the left one and 26 on the right. Anyone who shook my hand instinctively pulled back a bit upon feeling the bumpy scarred surface as I explained over and over that this was the fault of the "garris" and not an infectious disease.
But both the mosquito infestation and piles cat feces paled in comparison to what happened with our water. Water is a scarce commodity in Jordan so in order to conserve it a lot of buildings have automatic water tanks that only dispense a set amount of water every week starting Tuesday at midnight. The reason I know this is because one week my roommate (no blame games but it was not me) left one of the water taps in our kitchen sink in the on position. It was broken so at first we didn't notice it but that night, while we slept, it started working again and by the time we woke up our entire week's supply of water had vanished down the drain. That morning we found the water faucet gushing with our last few gallons. It was Thursday. We ran out of water some time that night.
People often say that you don't know what you have until it's gone. That may be true of love or friendship or family but take it from me, losing all those things pales in comparison to losing all your water. If I had to choose between losing a spouse or never getting to shower again, hand me the gun. The worst part is that at the time we had no idea when the water would come back on. Every few hours one of us would go into the bathroom, turn on the sink and come back out into a room of hopeful, desperate faces, shaking our heads in defeat. We grew dirtier and smellier. We bought bottles of water to wash our hands and eventually I caved and used one to wash my hair. Unfortunately we were all living on a budget so we really couldn't keep splurging for gallon after gallon of bottled water.
After three days none of us could use the toilet. We couldn't even bear to open the lid. We planned our day around our bowel movements, making sure to leave the house early in the morning or after a heavy meal.
I think the night we got our fresh supply of water ranks as one of the happiest days in my life. Even though we had settled in for the night and we were all ready to go to sleep, the second one of us discovered the running sink we celebrated like there was no tomorrow. We took showers, we washed the dishes, we cleaned our clothes, we brushed our teeth and we flushed the toilet as many times as we wanted! From then on we meticulously monitored our water usage. If someone announced that they were going to take a shower the rest of us exchanged suspicious glances until the person conceded that they had just showered two days ago and could probably go a little longer. Leave the water running while you brushed your teeth and you might find that someone had "accidentally" left the door to your room open for the cat to romp and piss in. I like to think that the experience taught me that if I ever have to be homeless I would probably survive.
There are a million other stories I could tell about that apartment, like the way we had to tie a long plastic bag to a faucet above the bathtub to run water into our washing machine or the time some shady guy kept ringing my doorbell and kicked in my door as I was peering through the eyehole. Turns out he wanted to pass out fliers. I did not take any on account of my near-broken nose.
I guess the whole experience proves more than anything that who you live with matters more than where you live. The summer I spent living in that shithole (you could really take that to mean either the apartment or Jordan).. it was the best summer of my life. I miss that place more than I can explain and if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't change a thing.
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