The Student Becomes The Teacher Grasshopper

After having to deal with this idiot stalking me for weeks now, I came across a brilliant opportunity the other day. Instead of showing up early to class, I resorted to coming 5 minutes late so that he wouldn't come and sit next to me.

Recently, I came late, took a seat in the back in the stadium-style lecture hall and start learning about physics. Then I peer on over at the dolt and see a classic moment. He was wearing his signature basketball shorts with a shirt that was a tad too tight for him.. and his ass was hanging out like a lot. I found this to be the perfect Kodak moment to use and whipped out my Blackberry to take a snap (yes btw, I do plan on dying in corporate hell).

As I was zooming in on the guy's ass crack on my comfortably large cell phone screen, I had an epiphany. Then I turned around and saw that someone was sitting behind me and was watching me do the whole thing. Clearly, the epiphany came a moment too late. The guy raised an eyebrow at me. I smiled back. I wanted to explain, but I didn't want to talk over my Physics professor. Oh well.

My Closet

I really resent the designations of "Type A" and "Type B" for people's personalities. Mostly because I do not consider myself either. Yes, I'm an organization freak. Yet, I'm a lazy organization freak. Figure that one out.

For example, for weeks I've seen my room gradually turn into a melting pot of clothes, dishes, and books. I just ignored it, relegating it to the confines of the primitive side of my mind. The gorilla side of me didn't care. Sure I tripped over shoes on the way to school in the mornings or managed to miss the bus because once again, I couldn't find my house keys or a clean pair of bottoms or... my other shoe. And I let it get this way because if it's not perfectly organized from the get go, I'm not even going to bother until I finally get that kick to want to finally become human again and live like a normal person with two pairs of shoes, a set of house keys at hand, and sheets that actually cover my mattress.

That kick was today. I went through my closet and finally threw out all those clothes that I "thought" I would wear eventually but never did. Then I did this:



From left to right: shoe rack [unpictured], salwar kameezes, dresses, slutty dresses (aka dresses destined for the discard pile), hooded outerwear, unhooded outerwear, cardigans/sweater outerwear, unbuttoned sweaters, long sleeved shirts, short sleeved shirts, short sleeved dress shirts, "sick day" outerwear, unoccupied hangers.

As I was proudly performing my organization duties, all the while imagining what a great day I was going to have tomorrow when I walk into my closet and pick out my outfit with such ease and finesse, something happened. This bastardly top came popping out of my collection, throwing my world completely off kilter.



I panicked. My heart started racing. Ok, so it is a sweater. So it should go in the sweater section, I thought at first. Then I thought some more. Wait, it is short-sleeved so it should go in the short-sleeved section... Or should I just make a new section altogether for this ONE top? But if I did that, where would THAT section go? Between the sweaters the short-sleeved shirts or between the short-sleeved shirts and the dress shirts? I went over this in my head for at least 30 minutes.

I threw it away. Evoked too much thinking and my heart couldn't take it.

Then I looked at my phone and saw that it was 8 pm on a Friday night.

Damn.

I need a boyfriend.

Marijuana Enthusiasts Need To Find Something Else To Be Enthusiastic About

People assume that since I live in Oregon that I'm some big pothead or something. No, I'm not. I find that marijuana dulls the very hatred that fuels my blog entires, and that would be a lose-lose situation for all of us now, wouldn't it? In fact, most marijuana users bug the crap about me and considering that my tolerance level for stupid decreases exponentially on THC, I try my best to avoid the stuff unless one day I choose to end up in prison for murder.

I overhear conversations all day long.
"Dooood, did you see the crystals on that nug?"
"I'm blazed as f$%k, should I go to class?"
"Man, John scored some BOMB ASS weed called Blueberry-Afghanistan-Love-Not-War."

And it's not only about the marijuana itself, but also its accompanying equipment.
"I just scored this tight pipe that my friend up in Eugene made himself."
"We decided to call it The Sherlock because its a bubbler."
"Damn dude. I'm depressed. I broke my piece last night."

Finally, then there are those creative souls that like to experiment.
"John is so smart. He figured out how to turn his bath tub into a huge bong last night."
"My girl Amber just found a new pot brownie recipe. It's dope. I should email it to you."

My response: if these people found more productive creative outlets, the world would be a better place. You know, like finding a hobby that actually results in something tangible rather than an entire day wasted on the couch staring at the cobwebs and contemplating whether or not the same cobwebs are forming in your brain. Which is more often the case than not.

I mean how creative are these names for marijuana strains? Whoever came up with names such as "blueberry chronic," and "hydroponic stinger" are oozing with the potential of being a Nobel Prize-winning poet. Then there are those with the scientific gift of figuring out how to maximize the THC content of every puff, either through the mechanism by which the said marijuana is smoked or by cross-breeding under the perfect ambient temperature and lighting. How successful would these people be at being physicists, creating nuclear weapons for the government, or as botanists working for Greenpeace. Ok fine, maybe working for Greenpeace is not exactly where anybody wants to be but it's something at least!

All I gotta say is be free my children and not in the hippie kind of way.

On Harassing Family Members Virtually...

This is what my brother has to put up with. Everyone of you should be glad you're not my family.

Blackberries Can Do More Than You Think

I just got a Blackberry. It's purple and looks like a mini-computer. Now, having a Blackberry may not be a big damn deal for some of you people, but considering that I've always sought for simplicity when seeking out a new phone, me owning a Blackberry is like Bill Gates buying a Macbook Pro and... liking it, a lot. It just doesn't mix... or does it?

So the thing is pretty cool. Can check my email, use instant messaging, go onto Facebook blah blah. Basically, annoy my friends at a greater extent than I already am as a former strictly laptop user. And you know, everyone reaches that threshold where they just get used to owning a Blackberry and it's not as exciting anymore. I was getting there within the 12 hours I've owned the thing.

But then something happened. I was riding the bus, and this guy approaches me. I had met him before on the same bus line and he would attempt to romance me by telling me how he'd moved up here from California "for love" and how it didn't work out. What a loser. Anyone that is willing to move states in the name of an internet-based love needs a huge slap in the face. Anyone that is attempting to use such a story as a way to get another woman needs to be punched. "Yea, that sucks dude," I would say and turn away but he'd keep talking about his broken heart. Sometimes to the point that my knuckles would turn white from forming a fist for too long, but don't worry I restrained myself.

So I'm sitting on the bus and here the loser comes. "Hey remember me?" He says. "Oh hey." I say back. He starts talking to me and it was one of those situations where he attempted to sound smart but he just sounded stupid without knowing it.

Him: Yea, so how was your trip to Nepal?
Me: [pretty sure he doesn't even know where Nepal is] It was good, but I'm glad to be back
Him: Yea, I bet. I remember when I went to Mexico I couldn't be there for more than 3 days.
Me: [doubtfully] Where in Mexico were you?
Him: Tijuana.
Me: You know that's not really Mexico right?
[silence]
Him: Well you know in other countries there are no sidewalks or roads really and like the cops are enterprising and stuff.
Me: Yea...ok...

While he continues on his stupid talk, I turn to my Blackberry and start checking the news and my email. He notices that I stopped paying attention to him. He gets up and goes back to sitting in the back of the bus where all idiots belong.

Man, that was awesome. My Blackberry, in addition to be the best communications device I've ever come across, wards off men like some kind of witch's broomstick. I'm going to use this trick from now on and see how more successful I can be. Meanwhile, I want to write a letter of thanks to the makers of Blackberry. And my last sentence will read: "Because of you guys, I can wear makeup and do my hair but still have a powerful tool within the palm of my hand that sends loser men off like kryptonite does to Superman." Awesome, just awesome.

What's Suppy?

I found myself hungry today so I woddled on over to Safeway to get sushi. Blasphemy, I know. Who the hell gets something like sushi at a grocery store? Well, I guess me.

I was already looking like a weirdo when I was too lazy to use chopsticks and was just shoving each little roll in my mouth with my hands. I find this method easier, in general. No more accidental drops, resulting in major trouser stainage if you ask me, and in the long run I get less stares from strangers for my food- and coffee-stained clothes.



As I'm eating and studying (or rather studying and eating), I find that what appeared to be a little sliver of avocado that accidentally fell off of the roll I was about to grab. I love avocado so I scoop the entire piece of it up on the entire roll and proceed to shove it in my mouth. Well. It. Wasn't. Avocado.

My mouth started perking up, my eyes started popping out of the orbitals of my skull. It felt as if my brain had sprung a leak and my cerebrospinal fluid was gushing out of my sinuses. A mother sitting a table over noticed something was not right and started shielding her toddler, expecting that I'd be transforming into The Hulk at any moment.

Well, I didn't transform into The Hulk, but I'm sure I lost a few brain cells. That, my friends, was my penultimate experience with wasabi.