So, this website claims to list some of the things that your astrological sign hates. I of course had to look. That kind of stuff makes me really curious and half the time I believe it, so I searched for Pisces on the list. Here's what it said for me. Laugh all you want...because I did.
Places that are too hot
This is, surprisingly, true. I cannot stand it if it is over 75 degrees outside and you can pretty much consider anything dealing with humidity a huge out for me. Having grown up in Northern California, the heat has been present, but easily avoidable. Being on the coast has always added a nice ocean breeze to the mix. However this doesn't mean I totally loathe it; my family and I regularly visit Death Valley and the National Parks of Southern California. Plus, in 10th grade, I did an exchange trip with a school in Tahiti and had an amazing time. Let's put it this way: I don't love it. I won't search it out. But to experience amazing things, some times you have to face what you hate. It's that simple.
Losing their sunglasses
What sunglasses? What is this? LA? Italy in every Hollywood movie? Does the whole effing world wear sunglasses?
Polluted water
Well, gee, yeah. I do hate it. You got me. I'm amazed and totally convinced. But doesn't EVERYONE? Oh no wait, I heard the sign Sagittarius is really into polluted water. This definitely won't be on their list. (The only reason this is here is because Pisces is a water sign - nice try trying to give this some credibility/believability jack ass.)
People who laugh too loud
Depends. What do we mean by "people"? Do we mean the people sitting at the table next to me in the restaurant having a private conversation way too loudly? Are they, at the same time, slurping down bowl after bowl of Miso soup and eating plate after plate of sushi (bastards. I could never afford that much sushi)? Because I do hate them. Or do you mean my room mate Ellen, whose loud boisterous laugh brings me eons of joy? Even at 1am I love to hear it wake me from my slumber.
People who walk away from arguments
That's just because they're PUSSSIES and know that I WILL WIN IF THEY STAY.
Alcoholics
Alright, problems with this statement:
1) I would be a hypocrite (half kidding).
2) I would hate all my friends (3/4 kidding).
3) I would hate almost everyone my age (not kidding).
4) We all have our vices and obsessions. Who am I to judge?
Being denied access to grandchildren
Oh God. Oh. My. God. Ever since my daughter put them in private school and moved out to the suburbs, I never get to see them. I miss them. I sent them checks for their birthday and never got a thank you letter. It is killing me inside. No but really...that would suck. If I had any.
Having to wear prescription glasses
Yo, what UP, reppin' 20/20 vision RIGHT HERE BITCHEZZZZZ.
Cars that waste energy
Once again...most. people. do. And if they don't, it's not because they're a Virgo or something. It's because they're from the Midwest. Just kidding. Sorry Karina.
Slow drivers
Well I don't drive, but I hate slow walkers. Does that count? When I have somewhere to be and the person in front of me is taking their sweet time, I want to punch them in the back of the head. Tourists make this especially hard for me. Actually, even when I don't have anywhere to be, I still get pissed off. I hate being in transit. In the words of Tom Wolfe, "The intrepid traveler takes one step and he is there!"
Showing posts with label angry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label angry. Show all posts
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Why I write lists
I write a lot of lists. Lists of foreign countries I have been to, long books I’ve read, bands I’ve seen, and famous people I’ve met. They make me look like an asshole.
But I don’t write these lists to be an asshole. It definitely appears to be that way to the uneducated eye, but if you knew me, if you understood how my brain works and how it thinks, you would understand the lists.
Let’s take the concert lists for an example, as I recently updated one. Keeping track of every concert I attend and then laying them all out in numerous fashions is not me bragging to the world of my achievements. I don’t mean to say “Look how many indie bands I have seen!” The pages of concert listings are for me and me only, and if I happen to bring it up in conversation, it is to reassure myself that they are important in some way, or helpful. After I’ve written that first list, I can’t help but continue the list, number it out, add to it, rearrange it. I keep changing it.
More lists have appeared from the first two official lists (“concerts I’ve been to” and “total bands seen live”). Now I list all the bands I’ve seen individually, so I now have an exact figure of bands I have seen (147). I also broke down the number of concerts I have seen by year, then by each month within the year. It’s obsessive and sick in a way. And I know this. But if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t know that the two months in which I have seen the most concerts so far have been April of 2008 and June of 2009. I also wouldn’t know that from 2005 to 2006, my yearly concert attendance jumped from 8 to 15. And that in 2008 it went up to 18. I wouldn’t know that I attended the exact same number of concerts in 2007 that I did in 2006. Also, the time when I saw the most concerts in a row (8) was April and May of 2008, which was, coincidentally, just before my French Baccalaureate exams.
But what’s the use for all of this? Who cares? Do I care? I don’t even know. The more lists I make about this, the more I fascinate myself. After they’re written, all I do with them is add on and occasionally open them to scroll through 13 or 14 times in one sitting. Scrolling through the lists is a wonderful feeling for me. But what the hell? Is that all they do?
This brings me to my point.
I have a habit of counting things down. Even if I am enjoying myself immensely, I count down to the minute at which something will end. I check the time and estimate how much longer I have in a moment or event. I check the calendar for how many more days in a trip, in a month. I keep a countdown on my Google home page to whatever big event I can latch onto. I am always asking the duration of something, which makes me sound rude. I am not trying to be rude. I just need to know so my brain can start the countdown. No matter what I do, I am counting down. When I was depressed, I used to countdown the hours till 11pm (when I would go to sleep) so I would know how much longer till I had gotten through another day.
And the thing is, I have always hated math. But I do not hate numbers. The only time I hate numbers is when I am using them against me; like I do with, yes, counting down. I wish I could stop counting down completely. I wish I cold enjoy time without wondering when something is going to end. Why do I wonder at all when I am having so much fun? It’s not that I am wishing for it to end. I’m just wondering when it will end. And this distracts me and pulls me out of the moment and I can’t reenter it for a while.
Then people think I’m getting upset. I am not. I am trying to stop counting.
These lists I make, whether they be for concerts I’ve attended, museums I’ve been to, airlines I’ve traveled on, or movies I have hated…they are my way of trying to satiate my craving for numbers. If I make enough lists, and reread them often enough, I don’t count time down. But when I stop the lists, the counting down begins.
Just a month ago I was on a trip with two close friends. I found myself counting the hours down till we had to go back to school. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends of my life and they were two of my favorite people on earth and we were in one of my favorite cities in the world and all I could do was count hours. One night, in my friend’s attic bedroom we were staying in, I tried writing a list of the things we had done that weekend so far, but it did not satisfy my brain.
To this day I remember that weekend with extreme fondness and I had an amazing time. I definitely had fun, don’t doubt that. But I was counting.
And that’s why I need the lists.
I really need them.
I don’t care if you know I’ve been to 12 different countries or not. Yeah, I would love to talk about my time there, but the number isn’t what matters. Remember this: if I say it, I am trying to validate myself with numbers.
It has gotten to the point that next term at school, I will be hanging a list on my wall by my bed. Any list, I just need one to look at. Then I will be going to the school pysch. I have fucking had it with missing the moment because of a clock.
But I don’t write these lists to be an asshole. It definitely appears to be that way to the uneducated eye, but if you knew me, if you understood how my brain works and how it thinks, you would understand the lists.
Let’s take the concert lists for an example, as I recently updated one. Keeping track of every concert I attend and then laying them all out in numerous fashions is not me bragging to the world of my achievements. I don’t mean to say “Look how many indie bands I have seen!” The pages of concert listings are for me and me only, and if I happen to bring it up in conversation, it is to reassure myself that they are important in some way, or helpful. After I’ve written that first list, I can’t help but continue the list, number it out, add to it, rearrange it. I keep changing it.
More lists have appeared from the first two official lists (“concerts I’ve been to” and “total bands seen live”). Now I list all the bands I’ve seen individually, so I now have an exact figure of bands I have seen (147). I also broke down the number of concerts I have seen by year, then by each month within the year. It’s obsessive and sick in a way. And I know this. But if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t know that the two months in which I have seen the most concerts so far have been April of 2008 and June of 2009. I also wouldn’t know that from 2005 to 2006, my yearly concert attendance jumped from 8 to 15. And that in 2008 it went up to 18. I wouldn’t know that I attended the exact same number of concerts in 2007 that I did in 2006. Also, the time when I saw the most concerts in a row (8) was April and May of 2008, which was, coincidentally, just before my French Baccalaureate exams.
But what’s the use for all of this? Who cares? Do I care? I don’t even know. The more lists I make about this, the more I fascinate myself. After they’re written, all I do with them is add on and occasionally open them to scroll through 13 or 14 times in one sitting. Scrolling through the lists is a wonderful feeling for me. But what the hell? Is that all they do?
This brings me to my point.
I have a habit of counting things down. Even if I am enjoying myself immensely, I count down to the minute at which something will end. I check the time and estimate how much longer I have in a moment or event. I check the calendar for how many more days in a trip, in a month. I keep a countdown on my Google home page to whatever big event I can latch onto. I am always asking the duration of something, which makes me sound rude. I am not trying to be rude. I just need to know so my brain can start the countdown. No matter what I do, I am counting down. When I was depressed, I used to countdown the hours till 11pm (when I would go to sleep) so I would know how much longer till I had gotten through another day.
And the thing is, I have always hated math. But I do not hate numbers. The only time I hate numbers is when I am using them against me; like I do with, yes, counting down. I wish I could stop counting down completely. I wish I cold enjoy time without wondering when something is going to end. Why do I wonder at all when I am having so much fun? It’s not that I am wishing for it to end. I’m just wondering when it will end. And this distracts me and pulls me out of the moment and I can’t reenter it for a while.
Then people think I’m getting upset. I am not. I am trying to stop counting.
These lists I make, whether they be for concerts I’ve attended, museums I’ve been to, airlines I’ve traveled on, or movies I have hated…they are my way of trying to satiate my craving for numbers. If I make enough lists, and reread them often enough, I don’t count time down. But when I stop the lists, the counting down begins.
Just a month ago I was on a trip with two close friends. I found myself counting the hours down till we had to go back to school. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends of my life and they were two of my favorite people on earth and we were in one of my favorite cities in the world and all I could do was count hours. One night, in my friend’s attic bedroom we were staying in, I tried writing a list of the things we had done that weekend so far, but it did not satisfy my brain.
To this day I remember that weekend with extreme fondness and I had an amazing time. I definitely had fun, don’t doubt that. But I was counting.
And that’s why I need the lists.
I really need them.
I don’t care if you know I’ve been to 12 different countries or not. Yeah, I would love to talk about my time there, but the number isn’t what matters. Remember this: if I say it, I am trying to validate myself with numbers.
It has gotten to the point that next term at school, I will be hanging a list on my wall by my bed. Any list, I just need one to look at. Then I will be going to the school pysch. I have fucking had it with missing the moment because of a clock.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Eating chores
I don’t remember when eating big meals became a chore for me.
It suddenly occurred to me one day that I didn’t exactly enjoy eating large portions of food anymore. I used to look forward to meals and certain foods or dinners out, but suddenly I realized this meant I would have to order some huge plate of food. The plate usually ends up three quarters full, while everyone else at the table has cleared theirs. The waiter comes around and looks at me, my plate, and then back at me. “Are you finished?” they ask. “Yes.” I say. “You sure?” they respond almost instantly. I want to scream, “Yes, I am fucking done! I’m sorry, I am so sorry. I know there are starving children all over the world. God, I am sorry.” But usually I just say “Could I get a box for this?” instead. At least that way they think I might finish it. This is why when a restaurant offers half salads or “smaller plates” I am ecstatic and dedicate myself to that part of the menu for the evening like it’s Jesus’ second coming.
Not that I like how people look at me when I order half a sandwich or just two chicken strips. I am already very skinny, and when an extremely thin girl with no fat or muscles whatsoever looks up and says “I’ll have half a salad”, the waiter usually thinks the worst. For once I wish I could gain some weight, just enough so that the person thinks “Oh yeah that’s fine she’s okay.” I feel funny when they’ve included “For those on a diet!” as part of the description of the smaller plates menu.
But let’s get this straight: I love food. I think it’s delicious and I have my favorites, like sushi and pasta. Food tastes amazing and for anyone to deny their human right to eat food is beyond me. I guess I mostly enjoy snacks here and there: coffee in a café, something in a bakery, a small appetizer. This is because these are easy to consume and small, and, having practically no appetite, it’s hard for me to eat a monstrous plate of salad. I like sitting and chatting and eating little bites of food here and there. It gives me something to do while I talk, almost like when a person who smokes only likes the motion and fashion of holding the cig for conversational purposes.
I like the social aspect of dining out. I like to be with people, to talk, to laugh. The eating part is a job I have to complete to make it to the enjoyable part. My burrito is a mountain to be scaled. If I can get through a good chunk, it will look like I tried my hardest. If I shove my salad around it will look more eaten.
I would love to eat out and order a salad, soup, an entrée, and then a great dessert. If my stomach would let me, I really would. The problem is, I get tired of dishes quickly and wish I could switch to something else in the middle of it. Life, unfortunately, does not work like that. Ever. Once you start something, you finish it. Only problem is, I never finish the food I order. Dining out I constantly wish I could switch my entrée platter halfway through eating because I am sick of the taste and how it looks and it’s smell. I become repulsed by the food. Then I get criticized for not finishing it. What can I do when each bite I take after it becomes boring to me makes me want to regurgitate everything?
Some times I’m sick of eating, but I can’t stop. When I’m bored, I eat. In class when I don’t want to work, I take constant sips from my iced tea or water bottle. At home, I snack here and there so big meals aren’t as hard to get through and I only take the minimum on my plate to eat.
Big portions scare me.
They’re intimidating.
When I do manage to get through almost an entire plate of food (this usually only happens when I am deciding my own portions), I cannot take the last bite. I always have to leave something on my plate. A few of my friends find this really annoying and kind of petty, but they have no idea what is going through my head. I cannot take that last bite or everything will end. How can they not see the balance of the world is left in that piece of tortilla or baby carrot? My god, people’s lives are at stake!
I suppose I don’t discuss this with people because, looking back, it sounds like I have some obscure eating disorder. This has been a topic of controversy in my circle for some time and I generally hate it when people think they are helping me with some intervention. I am not anorexic. Absolutely not. I just said I love food, didn’t I? I don’t hate food, I hate the amounts in which it is presented to me. In mountainous volumes, food makes me sick. I will push it away. I cannot understand how people finish the food restaurants serve these days.
I’d really prefer a half salad. Don’t look at me like that. I really do like salad.
It suddenly occurred to me one day that I didn’t exactly enjoy eating large portions of food anymore. I used to look forward to meals and certain foods or dinners out, but suddenly I realized this meant I would have to order some huge plate of food. The plate usually ends up three quarters full, while everyone else at the table has cleared theirs. The waiter comes around and looks at me, my plate, and then back at me. “Are you finished?” they ask. “Yes.” I say. “You sure?” they respond almost instantly. I want to scream, “Yes, I am fucking done! I’m sorry, I am so sorry. I know there are starving children all over the world. God, I am sorry.” But usually I just say “Could I get a box for this?” instead. At least that way they think I might finish it. This is why when a restaurant offers half salads or “smaller plates” I am ecstatic and dedicate myself to that part of the menu for the evening like it’s Jesus’ second coming.
Not that I like how people look at me when I order half a sandwich or just two chicken strips. I am already very skinny, and when an extremely thin girl with no fat or muscles whatsoever looks up and says “I’ll have half a salad”, the waiter usually thinks the worst. For once I wish I could gain some weight, just enough so that the person thinks “Oh yeah that’s fine she’s okay.” I feel funny when they’ve included “For those on a diet!” as part of the description of the smaller plates menu.
But let’s get this straight: I love food. I think it’s delicious and I have my favorites, like sushi and pasta. Food tastes amazing and for anyone to deny their human right to eat food is beyond me. I guess I mostly enjoy snacks here and there: coffee in a café, something in a bakery, a small appetizer. This is because these are easy to consume and small, and, having practically no appetite, it’s hard for me to eat a monstrous plate of salad. I like sitting and chatting and eating little bites of food here and there. It gives me something to do while I talk, almost like when a person who smokes only likes the motion and fashion of holding the cig for conversational purposes.
I like the social aspect of dining out. I like to be with people, to talk, to laugh. The eating part is a job I have to complete to make it to the enjoyable part. My burrito is a mountain to be scaled. If I can get through a good chunk, it will look like I tried my hardest. If I shove my salad around it will look more eaten.
I would love to eat out and order a salad, soup, an entrée, and then a great dessert. If my stomach would let me, I really would. The problem is, I get tired of dishes quickly and wish I could switch to something else in the middle of it. Life, unfortunately, does not work like that. Ever. Once you start something, you finish it. Only problem is, I never finish the food I order. Dining out I constantly wish I could switch my entrée platter halfway through eating because I am sick of the taste and how it looks and it’s smell. I become repulsed by the food. Then I get criticized for not finishing it. What can I do when each bite I take after it becomes boring to me makes me want to regurgitate everything?
Some times I’m sick of eating, but I can’t stop. When I’m bored, I eat. In class when I don’t want to work, I take constant sips from my iced tea or water bottle. At home, I snack here and there so big meals aren’t as hard to get through and I only take the minimum on my plate to eat.
Big portions scare me.
They’re intimidating.
When I do manage to get through almost an entire plate of food (this usually only happens when I am deciding my own portions), I cannot take the last bite. I always have to leave something on my plate. A few of my friends find this really annoying and kind of petty, but they have no idea what is going through my head. I cannot take that last bite or everything will end. How can they not see the balance of the world is left in that piece of tortilla or baby carrot? My god, people’s lives are at stake!
I suppose I don’t discuss this with people because, looking back, it sounds like I have some obscure eating disorder. This has been a topic of controversy in my circle for some time and I generally hate it when people think they are helping me with some intervention. I am not anorexic. Absolutely not. I just said I love food, didn’t I? I don’t hate food, I hate the amounts in which it is presented to me. In mountainous volumes, food makes me sick. I will push it away. I cannot understand how people finish the food restaurants serve these days.
I’d really prefer a half salad. Don’t look at me like that. I really do like salad.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
clean the toilet seat. just clean it.
For this past week and all of next week, I have been/will be working at a museum for their exhibtions department. I've had this job twice before and it's a blast. I love it. I'm currently pursuing a career in working in modern art museums, so any kind of experience and/or knowledge is a plus for me. Plus, the work they give me here is petty yes, but somehow extremely fascinating to me. It would seem my love for all kinds of modern and contemporary art has rendered me totally blind to the intern bitch work. I just love being here, surrounded by art. What more do I want in my young, starving art student life?
I work in an office seperate from the main room of cubicles. I share the office with the Exhibitions Designer (who is kind enough to let some little intern sit by him every day and ogle all the design plans he has laid out for upcoming exhibits). Since I'm in this office seperated from the main throng of desks, I use the public restroom that is available to all the museum patrons.
Now, this is a museum, so it's fancy, right? Yes. It's clean, right? Yes. And it seems like everything is maintained to the utmost perfection, right? Absolutely. This museum is a miracle worker in lighting, presentation, smell, whatever. I love it. However yesterday, I proceeded to the restroom with my normal degree of excitement/involvement ("Okay, going to pee, I've ignored the urge for too long..."). There was one stall open, and yet people were waiting in a line. I asked if I could use it and they shrugged and said sure. So I went in.
And I saw why they had all been avoiding it: there was a sprinkle of pee all alongside the seat.
Okay, first of all, I never understand how this happens in women's restrooms. The only thing I can think of is someone brought their little son in to help pee. But if that's case, you are TOTALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING THAT SHIT UP. Furthermore, even if it was a woman, not a little boy, you are STILL RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING THAT SHIT UP. And you are also responsible for figuring out what could be wrong with your vagina so that it does that.
And what makes me even more mad is that all these people were avoiding that stall just because there was some pee on the seat. Hell, anyone could clean that up! You grab some toilet paper, wipe it, and then you do your stuff. If you don't clean it, some poor underpaid union worker is going to have to do it anyway. So maybe you should suck it up for once! Why is it so hard?
I can undersatnd the clogged toilets thing. That's a broken toilet. Plus, poo is on a totally different level than pee. But man, if I could show you this one toilet I had to pee in in a Berlin art house...
Oh wait. I can.
Here it is (click that man, click it)
Yeah. Gross. But I did it. I fucking did it.
So, if I can pee into that, I think you can take three minutes to wipe up some pee in a posh metropolitan modern art museum bathroom.
If you'll excuse me, I am an all important intern with duties to attend to. Like cleaning restrooms, apparently.
I work in an office seperate from the main room of cubicles. I share the office with the Exhibitions Designer (who is kind enough to let some little intern sit by him every day and ogle all the design plans he has laid out for upcoming exhibits). Since I'm in this office seperated from the main throng of desks, I use the public restroom that is available to all the museum patrons.
Now, this is a museum, so it's fancy, right? Yes. It's clean, right? Yes. And it seems like everything is maintained to the utmost perfection, right? Absolutely. This museum is a miracle worker in lighting, presentation, smell, whatever. I love it. However yesterday, I proceeded to the restroom with my normal degree of excitement/involvement ("Okay, going to pee, I've ignored the urge for too long..."). There was one stall open, and yet people were waiting in a line. I asked if I could use it and they shrugged and said sure. So I went in.
And I saw why they had all been avoiding it: there was a sprinkle of pee all alongside the seat.
Okay, first of all, I never understand how this happens in women's restrooms. The only thing I can think of is someone brought their little son in to help pee. But if that's case, you are TOTALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING THAT SHIT UP. Furthermore, even if it was a woman, not a little boy, you are STILL RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEANING THAT SHIT UP. And you are also responsible for figuring out what could be wrong with your vagina so that it does that.
And what makes me even more mad is that all these people were avoiding that stall just because there was some pee on the seat. Hell, anyone could clean that up! You grab some toilet paper, wipe it, and then you do your stuff. If you don't clean it, some poor underpaid union worker is going to have to do it anyway. So maybe you should suck it up for once! Why is it so hard?
I can undersatnd the clogged toilets thing. That's a broken toilet. Plus, poo is on a totally different level than pee. But man, if I could show you this one toilet I had to pee in in a Berlin art house...
Oh wait. I can.
Here it is (click that man, click it)
Yeah. Gross. But I did it. I fucking did it.
So, if I can pee into that, I think you can take three minutes to wipe up some pee in a posh metropolitan modern art museum bathroom.
If you'll excuse me, I am an all important intern with duties to attend to. Like cleaning restrooms, apparently.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
things that really tick me off #2
It's another installment of "Things That Really Tick Me Off!" What useless object/opinion/horrible Creed-like band will I be bashing this time?
Flat soda
Yes, it's simple and stupid, but this really gets me mad. I can barely contain my anger when I open a bottle to a totally non-satisfying silence. Fuck you, I wanted this so badly to fizz with delight! This rarely happens with cans, which is really nice, and I always thought soda tasted better in cans anyway. But if you go to Bennington College (which I do) you know that we don't sell cans here (cause we're too good for them? too rich? too haughty? Who friggin knows). So I always get the bottle. And a lot of the time, my bottles open silently. Silence = bad.
This also seems to happen in the dining hall a whole lot. I'm already angry enough going to get my soda because they don't have Dr. Pepper, which is, and feel free to take me up on this debate, the best soda there is out there. No doubt. I adore it and think it tastes delicious. It's just a complex palette of flavor, something Coke doesn't do for me (and we're not even going to talk about Pepsi because I hate it's stupid face). But then I get even angrier after getting my Coke because I walk all the way back the table and it's flat And I swear to God it is always flat when I get it from the fountain. Or it was this last term. What's wrong with our soda fountain? How complex a piece of machinery is it to work? Everyone has one. I hear people have even been installing them in their homes (I might have made that up for argument's sake.)
So in the end, it just tastes like syrup water. I do NOT want to be reminded of what I'm drinking, thank you. Yes I know it's just sugar water. So sue me! I love it! I drink it a lot.
Now you all know of my unhealthy eating habits too. Whatever. I can never seem to get over 125 lbs. anyway. But a girl can dream, right? Gotta keep drinking that straight up Coca Cola syrup! Thanks Bennington!
PS Wait, wait...maybe I didn't make up that part about people putting soda fountain's in their homes! Look how easy it is to buy one ebay! And notice they call it a "Home" one! Plus there's this one all pro with logos and everything. Mm tasty. A sub-par yet filling meal was never so easy.
Flat soda
Yes, it's simple and stupid, but this really gets me mad. I can barely contain my anger when I open a bottle to a totally non-satisfying silence. Fuck you, I wanted this so badly to fizz with delight! This rarely happens with cans, which is really nice, and I always thought soda tasted better in cans anyway. But if you go to Bennington College (which I do) you know that we don't sell cans here (cause we're too good for them? too rich? too haughty? Who friggin knows). So I always get the bottle. And a lot of the time, my bottles open silently. Silence = bad.
This also seems to happen in the dining hall a whole lot. I'm already angry enough going to get my soda because they don't have Dr. Pepper, which is, and feel free to take me up on this debate, the best soda there is out there. No doubt. I adore it and think it tastes delicious. It's just a complex palette of flavor, something Coke doesn't do for me (and we're not even going to talk about Pepsi because I hate it's stupid face). But then I get even angrier after getting my Coke because I walk all the way back the table and it's flat And I swear to God it is always flat when I get it from the fountain. Or it was this last term. What's wrong with our soda fountain? How complex a piece of machinery is it to work? Everyone has one. I hear people have even been installing them in their homes (I might have made that up for argument's sake.)
So in the end, it just tastes like syrup water. I do NOT want to be reminded of what I'm drinking, thank you. Yes I know it's just sugar water. So sue me! I love it! I drink it a lot.
Now you all know of my unhealthy eating habits too. Whatever. I can never seem to get over 125 lbs. anyway. But a girl can dream, right? Gotta keep drinking that straight up Coca Cola syrup! Thanks Bennington!
PS Wait, wait...maybe I didn't make up that part about people putting soda fountain's in their homes! Look how easy it is to buy one ebay! And notice they call it a "Home" one! Plus there's this one all pro with logos and everything. Mm tasty. A sub-par yet filling meal was never so easy.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
the curse of small breasts
From the title of this post, I really don't have to say this, but I'll say it anyway: I have small boobs. There. I said it. Happy? You know what, I am. I am happy. On most days I am excited and thrilled to not have monster breasts that weigh me down and require me to wear some bra size that sounds more like a rifle model or type of ammunition. With small boobs, I also avoid ogling on the bus, pervs copping a feel on the underground, and other unsightly difficult girl problems (and that's a whole 'nother 750 item list).
But there are downfalls, of course. And I was reminded of them today. I was cleaning out my drawers of clothes. Having not been at home for a while, there was a lot of useless crap I didn't wear at all any more (my jean skirt and Ron Weasley t-shirt definitely go under this category), and I wanted to feel productive on an otherwise morbidly dull day. I thought I could really just skip over my undergarments drawer, because, who really hangs onto a gross pair of underwear or a decrepit bra after two or three years? But as I pulled things out, I noticed, stuffed into the bottom under some socks, a white bra.
Then I remembered: this was THAT bra. That horrible bra that I had hid and refused to wear. Why? Because when I went bra shopping for the first time ever (yes, with my mom), they had measured me then taken me to a "special section" where a bunch of racks were marked "Nearly A!"
Nearly. Thanks a lot jack-asses. The exclamation point after the A doesn't do anything for me, sorry. And the bra I purchased had a wonderful green tag on it that said the same thing. Mortified, I hid it and went without a bra for as long as I could. That bra still had the "Nearly A!" tag when I found it today. Unbelievable.
The thing is though, bra shopping has never been enjoyable for me at all. Not one bit. Seriously. What the fuck is up with Victoria's Secret? They honestly believe their customers look like their models. I feel great about myself when they tell me the only bras that come in my size are push up bras. Way to set back the feminist movement like, twenty years fucking bra companies. I also love the fact that when I do finally find a bra that is my size, after hours of tear jerking searches through miles of racks (haha, no pun intended), it only comes in fugly ass colors, like beige or tan. Whee. I look so fine in gray. Thanks.
Okay, so I don't really mind that much. I'm the last person you'll find putting on sexy lingerie or entering a Victoria's Secret at all. But I do think it gets to my friends when I call my boobs "inflamed mosquito bites" in front of them all the time. Might wanna ease up on that one a bit...
But there are downfalls, of course. And I was reminded of them today. I was cleaning out my drawers of clothes. Having not been at home for a while, there was a lot of useless crap I didn't wear at all any more (my jean skirt and Ron Weasley t-shirt definitely go under this category), and I wanted to feel productive on an otherwise morbidly dull day. I thought I could really just skip over my undergarments drawer, because, who really hangs onto a gross pair of underwear or a decrepit bra after two or three years? But as I pulled things out, I noticed, stuffed into the bottom under some socks, a white bra.
Then I remembered: this was THAT bra. That horrible bra that I had hid and refused to wear. Why? Because when I went bra shopping for the first time ever (yes, with my mom), they had measured me then taken me to a "special section" where a bunch of racks were marked "Nearly A!"
Nearly. Thanks a lot jack-asses. The exclamation point after the A doesn't do anything for me, sorry. And the bra I purchased had a wonderful green tag on it that said the same thing. Mortified, I hid it and went without a bra for as long as I could. That bra still had the "Nearly A!" tag when I found it today. Unbelievable.
The thing is though, bra shopping has never been enjoyable for me at all. Not one bit. Seriously. What the fuck is up with Victoria's Secret? They honestly believe their customers look like their models. I feel great about myself when they tell me the only bras that come in my size are push up bras. Way to set back the feminist movement like, twenty years fucking bra companies. I also love the fact that when I do finally find a bra that is my size, after hours of tear jerking searches through miles of racks (haha, no pun intended), it only comes in fugly ass colors, like beige or tan. Whee. I look so fine in gray. Thanks.
Okay, so I don't really mind that much. I'm the last person you'll find putting on sexy lingerie or entering a Victoria's Secret at all. But I do think it gets to my friends when I call my boobs "inflamed mosquito bites" in front of them all the time. Might wanna ease up on that one a bit...
Monday, June 22, 2009
thing that really ticks me off #1
Welcome the first of many installments.
I thought that when I don't have anything in particular to rant/joke around/make lists about, I can pull out one of these and they basically provoke the same effect. Plus, I have bucket loads. Obviously.
Let's start off with a simple, yet tragic, one:
The realization that I will never live in another time period
Okay, so this may sound petty and spoiled and all around neurotic but honestly, it really does annoy me. I can't say I am a huge fan of this day and age; there are things I love but there are also things I really strongly dislike. And while other decades and eras had their downfalls as well (as an example, no modern medicine in the Dark Ages was pretty bad) I've always thought it would be amazing to just live for a day in a world like that. Part of me would do absolutely anything to spend one afternoon in Victorian London (yeah, that's right: I'd risk the rib breaking corsets and diseases in the streets for one true period tea time crumpet). I also of course would love to hang out at Woodstock in the 1960s, or fight my way into a Beatles concert, screaming my guts out like all those insane girls you see in old footage.
Top three periods I would travel back to:
1) The 1960s
2) The 1920s
3) Louis XIV France, provided I could be a noble in court
Yes, I will change my gender to make it back there. Can time machines do that? It should be a function or a button you press.
I would totally skip over Napoleon France and Woodraw Wilson America. They were annoying, in office for too long, and racist. And we liberal San Franciscans will not stand for that.
Until later, my friends. What era would you return to?
I thought that when I don't have anything in particular to rant/joke around/make lists about, I can pull out one of these and they basically provoke the same effect. Plus, I have bucket loads. Obviously.
Let's start off with a simple, yet tragic, one:
The realization that I will never live in another time period
Okay, so this may sound petty and spoiled and all around neurotic but honestly, it really does annoy me. I can't say I am a huge fan of this day and age; there are things I love but there are also things I really strongly dislike. And while other decades and eras had their downfalls as well (as an example, no modern medicine in the Dark Ages was pretty bad) I've always thought it would be amazing to just live for a day in a world like that. Part of me would do absolutely anything to spend one afternoon in Victorian London (yeah, that's right: I'd risk the rib breaking corsets and diseases in the streets for one true period tea time crumpet). I also of course would love to hang out at Woodstock in the 1960s, or fight my way into a Beatles concert, screaming my guts out like all those insane girls you see in old footage.
Top three periods I would travel back to:
1) The 1960s
2) The 1920s
3) Louis XIV France, provided I could be a noble in court
Yes, I will change my gender to make it back there. Can time machines do that? It should be a function or a button you press.
I would totally skip over Napoleon France and Woodraw Wilson America. They were annoying, in office for too long, and racist. And we liberal San Franciscans will not stand for that.
Until later, my friends. What era would you return to?
Friday, June 19, 2009
this is what I call "the slow death of Facebook"
Whenever I log onto Facebook, I have at least three notifications. Can you guess what all three usually are?
a) Someone posting something on my wall or commenting on a photo of me, etc
b) The Heroes application telling me I just acquired a new super power
c) People commenting on my hilarious, witty, or beautiful status
d) Quizzes telling me my dumb ass friend just took a quiz that is totally retarded and that I should totally take it because it will waste my time and piss me off
A lot of the time, it's can be a, b, or c (yes I have the Heroes application. Shut up.) But guess what? More than half the time it is the answer d. Yes. Fucking quizzes.
Okay, so maybe I was little harsh in my description, but seriously? I get so many of these that I'm starting to hate logging into Facebook. Plus they are constantly in my news feed as well: "Random person you went to high school with and barely know just found out they are Princess Belle! Which princess are you?" Frankly, my dear, I don't give a flying fuck.
And it's not like I can just click "Hide" next to the news story and then automatically hide all quizzes forever. Nope. You have to hide each individual quiz as they show up. And I'm willing to bet there are a lot of quizzes on Facebook right now. Hence, there is no way I will ever hide them all. Ergo, I will continue getting quiz notifications and news stories for the rest of my life (or whatever).
I'll be honest: I've taken a few. You know, "Are you a true San Franciscan?" "What state do you belong in?" "Which Gilmore Girls character are you?" (wait, what?). But you don't see my results up in other people's faces. Why? Because I don't click "Publish." You also don't get notifications from me because, drum roll please, I DON'T INVITE ANYONE. Do people not get this? You don't HAVE to invite people to the quiz to get your results. They just make it seem that way. But if you look above the invite box, there is a link that says "continue to results." Click it. Please. In the name of everything holy, please click it.
Maybe some day I'll stop being asked what kind of drunk I am. Honestly, if you have to take a quiz to know that, I can tell you: you're a super drunk.
Please good people, unless the result is out of this world funny, keep it to yourself.
And thus ends another pointless rant by me. I guess, in the end, I do this for the humor.
a) Someone posting something on my wall or commenting on a photo of me, etc
b) The Heroes application telling me I just acquired a new super power
c) People commenting on my hilarious, witty, or beautiful status
d) Quizzes telling me my dumb ass friend just took a quiz that is totally retarded and that I should totally take it because it will waste my time and piss me off
A lot of the time, it's can be a, b, or c (yes I have the Heroes application. Shut up.) But guess what? More than half the time it is the answer d. Yes. Fucking quizzes.
Okay, so maybe I was little harsh in my description, but seriously? I get so many of these that I'm starting to hate logging into Facebook. Plus they are constantly in my news feed as well: "Random person you went to high school with and barely know just found out they are Princess Belle! Which princess are you?" Frankly, my dear, I don't give a flying fuck.
And it's not like I can just click "Hide" next to the news story and then automatically hide all quizzes forever. Nope. You have to hide each individual quiz as they show up. And I'm willing to bet there are a lot of quizzes on Facebook right now. Hence, there is no way I will ever hide them all. Ergo, I will continue getting quiz notifications and news stories for the rest of my life (or whatever).
I'll be honest: I've taken a few. You know, "Are you a true San Franciscan?" "What state do you belong in?" "Which Gilmore Girls character are you?" (wait, what?). But you don't see my results up in other people's faces. Why? Because I don't click "Publish." You also don't get notifications from me because, drum roll please, I DON'T INVITE ANYONE. Do people not get this? You don't HAVE to invite people to the quiz to get your results. They just make it seem that way. But if you look above the invite box, there is a link that says "continue to results." Click it. Please. In the name of everything holy, please click it.
Maybe some day I'll stop being asked what kind of drunk I am. Honestly, if you have to take a quiz to know that, I can tell you: you're a super drunk.
Please good people, unless the result is out of this world funny, keep it to yourself.
And thus ends another pointless rant by me. I guess, in the end, I do this for the humor.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
thing that kind of irks me number 278
I spent the whole day strolling around the Haight Street fair. I live quite near it so I just walked down and saw the sights. I bought a book of Sylvia Plath poems, listened to a few bands, chatted with a local poet who wrote a poem for me, danced, checked out drug paraphernalia, and generally had a really great time. I even loved what I was wearing, and since I was wearing a skirt, this is rare (I generally hate skirts). I had a hippie band around my head and my favorite tshirt on (a Sunset Rubdown band shirt). So as you can see, it was a pretty wonderful day.
However, one aspect to the day really ticked me off. Halfway down my walk of Haight street, I passed Ben and Jerry's on the corner of Haight & Ashbury. Prime business location, especially for an ice cream company that claims to be as independent and free loving as the hippie man himself, Jerry Garcia (they even have a flavor for him). Going to college in Vermont, people often ask me if I've been to the Ben and Jerry's factory or if I eat it all the time. The answer to both questions is no, but this is besides the point. The point is that today, I really wanted a cup of my favorite flavor "Imagine Whirled Peace." So I went in. And almost immediately, my heart sunk. Why? This is why:
"Regular cup: $4.50".
What the flying FUCK?
$4.50 for one minuscule cup of ice cream? Look, I know Ben and Jerry's is good and all but...seriously?
Ben and Jerry's claims, through advertising and the general conduct of their company and employees, that they are a essentially a liberal industry of Vermont hippies who just want to make some ice cream. The use of the images of John Lennon and Jerry Garcia plus all the peace signs that adorn their locations make us no stranger to this fact. We get it. You're hippies. Ben and Jerry were nature loving hippies. Awesome. Then why, you alternative thinking vegetarians, are your prices at ridiculous highs? Ones that a normal, mid income American would probably not splurge for on most days, especially in this economy.
I understand we're in a recession. Everyone is dying to make money and prices have soared overall. But out of all the price rises I've seen, this one is the most ridiculous. Worse than Mel's Diner (and that one was bad). I bought a regular cup of ice cream and I got one scoop of one flavor. One scoop for $4.50. It seems like the only way Ben and Jerry's can make money off of this is through the fact that their flavors are so obscure and copyrighted that sometimes you can't get that one you crave anywhere else (see flavors "Phish Food", "Chunky Monkey", "Cherry Garcia", and "Half Baked").
I just can't understand how such a cute, honest, wonderful company like Ben and Jerry's could turn into such a corporate frenzy fest, even if they've been bought out by Nestle (evil evil people). I don't see Ben or Jerry standing for this kind of thing. A shake for $6.50? Oh my god, no way. Even just a chocolate shake? Not to mention Ben and Jerry's have totally bought into the stupid trend of fruit smoothies; they have, like, 15 flavors. Just like Starbucks and Tullys have done. Let the smoothie places handle it people (ahem, Jamba Juice). They know what they're doing. See, this is where I think communism could almost work: you make this and stick to that, and they'll make that and stick to that and you won't worry about competition.
I hate thinking about Ben and Jerry's having ridiculously high prices because it makes me think more and more about this: if rebellion is now "cool" and "in", and everyone is doing it together, mutually enjoying it, then how is it rebellion at all now? If Ben and Jerry's are charging us four bucks for a small thing of ice cream, how are we fighting back the man? By paying a lot for ice cream, just because their walls are painted with cute cows in green rolling fields (OH VERMONT HOW I MISS YOU.) ? In the end it all goes back to that big bad wolf of a corporation, Nestle.
Thank God for the Ben and Jerry's Foundation (http://www.benjerry.com/company/foundation/). At least I know now and then they are reaching out. But Ben, Jerry...come on guys. Please don't let this happen entirely to you too. Or else Naked Juice or Timbuk2 bags could be next.
However, one aspect to the day really ticked me off. Halfway down my walk of Haight street, I passed Ben and Jerry's on the corner of Haight & Ashbury. Prime business location, especially for an ice cream company that claims to be as independent and free loving as the hippie man himself, Jerry Garcia (they even have a flavor for him). Going to college in Vermont, people often ask me if I've been to the Ben and Jerry's factory or if I eat it all the time. The answer to both questions is no, but this is besides the point. The point is that today, I really wanted a cup of my favorite flavor "Imagine Whirled Peace." So I went in. And almost immediately, my heart sunk. Why? This is why:
"Regular cup: $4.50".
What the flying FUCK?
$4.50 for one minuscule cup of ice cream? Look, I know Ben and Jerry's is good and all but...seriously?
Ben and Jerry's claims, through advertising and the general conduct of their company and employees, that they are a essentially a liberal industry of Vermont hippies who just want to make some ice cream. The use of the images of John Lennon and Jerry Garcia plus all the peace signs that adorn their locations make us no stranger to this fact. We get it. You're hippies. Ben and Jerry were nature loving hippies. Awesome. Then why, you alternative thinking vegetarians, are your prices at ridiculous highs? Ones that a normal, mid income American would probably not splurge for on most days, especially in this economy.
I understand we're in a recession. Everyone is dying to make money and prices have soared overall. But out of all the price rises I've seen, this one is the most ridiculous. Worse than Mel's Diner (and that one was bad). I bought a regular cup of ice cream and I got one scoop of one flavor. One scoop for $4.50. It seems like the only way Ben and Jerry's can make money off of this is through the fact that their flavors are so obscure and copyrighted that sometimes you can't get that one you crave anywhere else (see flavors "Phish Food", "Chunky Monkey", "Cherry Garcia", and "Half Baked").
I just can't understand how such a cute, honest, wonderful company like Ben and Jerry's could turn into such a corporate frenzy fest, even if they've been bought out by Nestle (evil evil people). I don't see Ben or Jerry standing for this kind of thing. A shake for $6.50? Oh my god, no way. Even just a chocolate shake? Not to mention Ben and Jerry's have totally bought into the stupid trend of fruit smoothies; they have, like, 15 flavors. Just like Starbucks and Tullys have done. Let the smoothie places handle it people (ahem, Jamba Juice). They know what they're doing. See, this is where I think communism could almost work: you make this and stick to that, and they'll make that and stick to that and you won't worry about competition.
I hate thinking about Ben and Jerry's having ridiculously high prices because it makes me think more and more about this: if rebellion is now "cool" and "in", and everyone is doing it together, mutually enjoying it, then how is it rebellion at all now? If Ben and Jerry's are charging us four bucks for a small thing of ice cream, how are we fighting back the man? By paying a lot for ice cream, just because their walls are painted with cute cows in green rolling fields (OH VERMONT HOW I MISS YOU.) ? In the end it all goes back to that big bad wolf of a corporation, Nestle.
Thank God for the Ben and Jerry's Foundation (http://www.benjerry.com/company/foundation/). At least I know now and then they are reaching out. But Ben, Jerry...come on guys. Please don't let this happen entirely to you too. Or else Naked Juice or Timbuk2 bags could be next.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Ah yes
The dreaded first post. What to say and really, how to say it?
I guess I just want this as an outlet to be an asshole.
Because when you don't want to punch people in the face because they're being idiots, you go on the internet and look at funny pictures of cats, right? NO. You go on the internet and you yell about it on a blog.
Also, I have been finding some great blogs as of late that are written in a style worthy of a memoir. I'd like to achieve this subtle wit as well. And I believe I can.
And so that's all I'll say for now.
I guess I just want this as an outlet to be an asshole.
Because when you don't want to punch people in the face because they're being idiots, you go on the internet and look at funny pictures of cats, right? NO. You go on the internet and you yell about it on a blog.
Also, I have been finding some great blogs as of late that are written in a style worthy of a memoir. I'd like to achieve this subtle wit as well. And I believe I can.
And so that's all I'll say for now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
