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
Saturday, September 5, 2009
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.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I eat a lot of spinach, you can probably tell
Today I ran into the bro-iest young man I have talked to in a long time. I was walking back to my apartment carrying Dominos pizza when he ran me down at the gate all pumped up and ready to hit on some girls.
“Yo. You’ve got a pizza” (he was observant)
“Yes I do.”
“What kind is it?”
“It’s a spinach pizza”
“Spinach that’s awesome. I eat a lot of spinach. You can probably tell.” (At this point he flexes his bicep at me, which I thought was something that guys only did in bad teen movies from the 90s)
“Oh yeah, you can definitely tell”
“Yeah my great-grandfather was Popeye” (verbatim)
“Well… good to know”
So okay, yes I mock him and I look down at him like his behavior is beneath me, but this is certainly not the case. In fact, the reason his behavior irritates me is probably because in many ways it mirrors my own. Only his strategy is simpler; it’s more direct. He makes inane conversation about my pizza and flexes his muscles at me. I, on the other hand, make subtle remarks about my GPA and tease nearly-grown men incessantly like a fifth grade boy. I also bowl, play video games and I can chug a beer in under 10 seconds. I like to think that those things make me cool but in all honesty I know that I’m really just flexing my muscles.
Back in the days when women stayed in the manor to hone the finer skills of music composition and embroidery, I suppose the best way to attract a man was to exhibit poise, talent and grace. Also it probably helped if you were hot. Now we diligently study the names of every starting player in the NFL until the day when suddenly we seem to give a shit about draft picks. It isn’t the strategy I usually opt for (if you couldn’t already tell by my likely misuse of sports-related jargon), but it bears resemblance to some of my own tactics.
The new best way to get a guy it seems is to be more like a guy. This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy the things I’m interested in or that I never take any interest in things that stray from the definition of masculine but I do admit that liking things that guys like or being good at things that guys are good at… well there’s an added bonus there. Liking those things increases your stock. It says “hey, hanging out with me is fun so you might actually enjoy dating me.” Also it still probably helps if you’re hot.
In any case, girls who always insist on watching Jane Austin dramas or any number of romantic comedies staring Kate Hudson may deserve an over-the-top eye roll but at least they do it for themselves. There is nothing more counterproductive than crying during a chick flick when you’re trying to impress a guy, but at least it’s honest. Knowing to use the term “map” when you’re playing Call of Duty doesn’t really say anything about you except “when I was younger I played almost exclusively with My Little Pony action figures and now I’m trying to pretend like that never happened.” (On the same vein of honesty I suppose I should admit that I suck at Call of Duty although I’ve been told I’m pretty good for a girl… ah my stroked ego).
Not that I would have it any other way. I like being “one of the guys.” Most girls do. But I do cringe a little when I hear that expression because I know that although I do love guys, I am not one of them. Far from it… I am a girl. I know how to French braid hair, I own all six seasons of Gilmore Girls, I have dressed up like 4 different Disney princesses for Halloween in my life (once in high school), it takes me just under an hour to pick out an outfit in the morning and I have seen every season of Project Runway. I have also seen every episode of South Park anywhere from 3 to 50 times but this is just one of many, many facts about me that I choose to share with other people. And most of the time, when I mention that little piece of information to guy I’m interested in, I can’t help but feel that I might as well be saying my great grandfather was Popeye.
Friday, March 6, 2009
God Speed, L. Ron Hubbard
Like almost everyone I know (whether they like to admit it or not), I base most of my decisions on what other people think or rather the reaction I picture them having to my choices. When I put up decorations in my room I picture guests complimenting them or asking me why I chose to stick a T-shirt that reads “Jack Lives Here” up on my wall, which of course will allow me to explain that it is the shirt I wore when I worked at a bar in Jordan this summer, making me look ridiculously cool and worldly.
No need to say of course that I worked as a part-time waitress getting paid ten Dinars a night in cash (which comes out to a little under two dollars an hour) making me slightly more legit than an illegal Mexican busboy that you pay in tips. Nor do I need to elaborate that I took the job in order to fight the depression of spending every night watching entire seasons of The Office with my roommate, fantasizing about all the cool, fun things happening out there where people have friends. No, I just stick to the basic: “Oh that’s my uniform from this bar I worked at in Jordan. Yeah, I was there this summer working for a development NGO but I just did that for fun. Does it sound cool? Oh I guess it was pretty cool now that I think about it.”
And the sad thing is, it really does. Now, as I have come to see it, I spent my summer in exotic foreign places with cool, interesting people rather than in a dingy apartment with broken windows and a mangy cat, working off the hangover from my night of dancing with some sketchy dudes at a second-rate disco as I wait for my roommates to get home from their real jobs so we can watch my bootleg copy of Iron Man. Other people’s approval is like a magical wand that suddenly makes your life enviable when just yesterday you were peaking through your blinds to scope out your neighbor’s party, hoping it would die down soon so you could finish watching The Notebook and pass out early.
Similarly, as someone who thinks they have an impeccable taste in movies, I have stopped myself from making several purchases at Video Paradiso that would suggest otherwise for fear of being wrongly judged by cool video store clerks. Most recently I found a copy of Introduction to Scientology with L. Ron Hubbard for sale in the used movies section and instantly found myself torn between the attention I would get from showing off the hilarious purchase to my friends and the judgment I would inevitably suffer at the hands of the Urban Outfitters-clad, hipster check out guy.
Of course I could explain myself as he rung up my purchases, laughing about how “I just found that on the shelf” and “isn’t it great?” But as I contemplated this I saw myself through his eyes: a closet-freak Scientologist trying to cover up her weird cult affiliation, off to spend her Saturday night vanquishing evil theatons with the help of her life-size Tom Cruise cutout. I thought about the wording and intonation I could use to make it believable that I was merely an avid South Park fan buying this DVD for shits and giggles but every time I thought about going up to the counter I looked down at L. Ron Hubbard’s solemn expression and even I didn’t believe my story.
Instead I went up to the counter with the jackets for Grosse Point Blank and Gosford Park. “Great movies!” the guy said as he walked off to find the corresponding disks and even though I’m sure they are paid to say that – just like your friends are trying to be polite when they pretend that your summer in Jordan sounds really interesting – it still made me feel cool and exclusive, two things which I am absolutely not. Later on I told my roommate about the DVD I almost bought and just as I expected she laughed and talked about how funny it would have been.
"Why didn't you get it?" she asked.
No need to say of course that I worked as a part-time waitress getting paid ten Dinars a night in cash (which comes out to a little under two dollars an hour) making me slightly more legit than an illegal Mexican busboy that you pay in tips. Nor do I need to elaborate that I took the job in order to fight the depression of spending every night watching entire seasons of The Office with my roommate, fantasizing about all the cool, fun things happening out there where people have friends. No, I just stick to the basic: “Oh that’s my uniform from this bar I worked at in Jordan. Yeah, I was there this summer working for a development NGO but I just did that for fun. Does it sound cool? Oh I guess it was pretty cool now that I think about it.”
And the sad thing is, it really does. Now, as I have come to see it, I spent my summer in exotic foreign places with cool, interesting people rather than in a dingy apartment with broken windows and a mangy cat, working off the hangover from my night of dancing with some sketchy dudes at a second-rate disco as I wait for my roommates to get home from their real jobs so we can watch my bootleg copy of Iron Man. Other people’s approval is like a magical wand that suddenly makes your life enviable when just yesterday you were peaking through your blinds to scope out your neighbor’s party, hoping it would die down soon so you could finish watching The Notebook and pass out early.
Similarly, as someone who thinks they have an impeccable taste in movies, I have stopped myself from making several purchases at Video Paradiso that would suggest otherwise for fear of being wrongly judged by cool video store clerks. Most recently I found a copy of Introduction to Scientology with L. Ron Hubbard for sale in the used movies section and instantly found myself torn between the attention I would get from showing off the hilarious purchase to my friends and the judgment I would inevitably suffer at the hands of the Urban Outfitters-clad, hipster check out guy.
Of course I could explain myself as he rung up my purchases, laughing about how “I just found that on the shelf” and “isn’t it great?” But as I contemplated this I saw myself through his eyes: a closet-freak Scientologist trying to cover up her weird cult affiliation, off to spend her Saturday night vanquishing evil theatons with the help of her life-size Tom Cruise cutout. I thought about the wording and intonation I could use to make it believable that I was merely an avid South Park fan buying this DVD for shits and giggles but every time I thought about going up to the counter I looked down at L. Ron Hubbard’s solemn expression and even I didn’t believe my story.
Instead I went up to the counter with the jackets for Grosse Point Blank and Gosford Park. “Great movies!” the guy said as he walked off to find the corresponding disks and even though I’m sure they are paid to say that – just like your friends are trying to be polite when they pretend that your summer in Jordan sounds really interesting – it still made me feel cool and exclusive, two things which I am absolutely not. Later on I told my roommate about the DVD I almost bought and just as I expected she laughed and talked about how funny it would have been.
"Why didn't you get it?" she asked.
"Oh, it was like ten bucks. I didn't want to spend the money."
Of course, both of those statements are lies. The movie only cost three dollars but regardless, I would have spent ten. I probably would have spent more than ten. Not too long ago I bought a bb shotgun for twenty-five dollars to use as a Halloween accessory so yeah, I would spend more than ten dollars on a useless piece of crap. And perhaps some day I will. But for now, if I'm lucky, L. Ron Hubbard sits for me on that shelf, waiting in vain for the day when I am not afraid of looking like an idiot.
Monday, February 23, 2009
A Dear Jon Letter to Super Mario Galaxy
Dear Super Mario Galaxy,
You are slowly ruining my life.
When I first met you last Friday I thought you were the best gift I could ever receive indirectly through my roommate's girlfriend. You came to me like a miracle from St. Valentine himself. You made me believe that this fake holiday really could be about loving each other so much that we give each other amazing Wii video games. But before long I had overly romanticized our relationship like a self-involved tween on Valentines Day, blinded by promises of happiness and love just long enough for you to leech onto my fragile little mind and suck away all my ambitions and dreams until there was nothing left to do but fight Bowser for a grand star.
It seemed so innocent at first. Just running around, jumping on mushroom men, gathering coins, completing missions on my way to save the princess. It all felt so familiar. Then you turned me into a bee and had me climbing on honeycombs, you made me defeat a giant egg monster using nothing but its own tail and the wall-jumping... oh the wall-jumping. And every time I won another star you just kept letting me discover new planets before I even gathered all the stars in Beach Bowl Galaxy, you monster!
Even when I shut my door to study for midterms I can hear you in the living room shouting "woo-HOOO," you DIRTY SIREN! Even when I leave my apartment I can't get that five note melody out of my head. Yesterday I felt the sudden urge to dodge traffic because I saw something shiny on the other side of the street.
I haven't watched a single minute of TV since Thursday.
I have no idea what is going on with my friends.
So I have decided to break up with you, Super Mario Galaxy. I know you will resist me and I will probably cave. I just wish you would go away. How can I avoid you when you won't leave my apartment and you keep hanging out with all my friends? I need to leave the house. I need to spend time with other people. I need to graduate college. And I really don't see that happening if you keep hanging around me. I would do it myself but I'm not strong enough. I wish I could just eject you, put you back in your case and lend you to my friend who never returned Wii Sports but I can't, Super Mario Galaxy. I can't. It's really too bad that Jeff bought that 30 pack of batteries or we would have lost all power in our remotes by now.
I just hope you find it in your heart to let me go; to develop a scratch that makes you skip too much or get misplaced one day on the off-chance that one of my roommates has a sudden urge to play Crazy Taxi. But for now, I'm going to go feed that Luma Star because I think it will take me to a planet where I can turn into a giant icicle and walk on lava.
Sincerely,
Elena
You are slowly ruining my life.
When I first met you last Friday I thought you were the best gift I could ever receive indirectly through my roommate's girlfriend. You came to me like a miracle from St. Valentine himself. You made me believe that this fake holiday really could be about loving each other so much that we give each other amazing Wii video games. But before long I had overly romanticized our relationship like a self-involved tween on Valentines Day, blinded by promises of happiness and love just long enough for you to leech onto my fragile little mind and suck away all my ambitions and dreams until there was nothing left to do but fight Bowser for a grand star.
It seemed so innocent at first. Just running around, jumping on mushroom men, gathering coins, completing missions on my way to save the princess. It all felt so familiar. Then you turned me into a bee and had me climbing on honeycombs, you made me defeat a giant egg monster using nothing but its own tail and the wall-jumping... oh the wall-jumping. And every time I won another star you just kept letting me discover new planets before I even gathered all the stars in Beach Bowl Galaxy, you monster!
Even when I shut my door to study for midterms I can hear you in the living room shouting "woo-HOOO," you DIRTY SIREN! Even when I leave my apartment I can't get that five note melody out of my head. Yesterday I felt the sudden urge to dodge traffic because I saw something shiny on the other side of the street.
I haven't watched a single minute of TV since Thursday.
I have no idea what is going on with my friends.
So I have decided to break up with you, Super Mario Galaxy. I know you will resist me and I will probably cave. I just wish you would go away. How can I avoid you when you won't leave my apartment and you keep hanging out with all my friends? I need to leave the house. I need to spend time with other people. I need to graduate college. And I really don't see that happening if you keep hanging around me. I would do it myself but I'm not strong enough. I wish I could just eject you, put you back in your case and lend you to my friend who never returned Wii Sports but I can't, Super Mario Galaxy. I can't. It's really too bad that Jeff bought that 30 pack of batteries or we would have lost all power in our remotes by now.
I just hope you find it in your heart to let me go; to develop a scratch that makes you skip too much or get misplaced one day on the off-chance that one of my roommates has a sudden urge to play Crazy Taxi. But for now, I'm going to go feed that Luma Star because I think it will take me to a planet where I can turn into a giant icicle and walk on lava.
Sincerely,
Elena
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