Shorts and sandals of the nefarious sort

Tomorrow morning I will embark on a new and unexpected adventure: a family-friendly cruise. I will spend a week on a Disney crackpot vessel that encourages—nay, thrives off of the cheesy, corny lifestyles of Americans. I would describe myself to a complete stranger and without the need of this contextual support as the antithesis of a cruise. Yes, I’m pale and cynical for a reason! That being said, it will be nice to spend some time with my family as we all burn together and seek shade under an artificial palm tree. Ah, family bonding. If I survive this, I can survive anything!

It's the thought that counts

To prove to you all that I’m no Scrooge, I would like to say, quite politically incorrect and therefore all the more trendy, Merry Christmas, fools!

No apologies, only acceptance

Ok sooo bitterness is definitely the worst feeling evahhhh! Clearly, even after a year, I still can’t accept the incompetence of the unsuitable, unprofessionalllllllll French education system. Ugh, there I go again! There’s a strong likelihood that I’m going to be one of those cynical, old women with a wacky style and a flare for the peculiar.

I mean this in the most offensive way possible...

May this day forever go down in history as my last day of French, the language of hypocritical, mediocre FOOLS whose breath reeks of allllllll the shiz they push past their jagged, unhygienic teeth and thin, nicotine-splintered lips. Yes, I said it! And I’d say it in French, too! But I don’t feel like translating… So eff that!

Bad timing

It has come to my attention that I have a low, perhaps almost non-existent, tolerance for loitering in respect to group projects. It’s painful enough to be forced to interact with people, but to waste my time with trivial small talk and verbose tangents?! That’s where I shut it DOWN. Don’t ramble on about shiz I don’t need to know. We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances. We’re simply group members, nothing more. Once this project is done, I will pretend I don’t know you. If we cross in passing, I will whip out my cell phone and check my email. Yeah, that’s how I roll. Suck it! So, why prolong a meeting for an hour when it could have been done in 20 minutes? You’re not investing your time into a future friendship. Efficiency is how I do. Get at it!

Rant ovahhhhhh!

Struck gold

Owing to the old woman within, I have yet to fully understand this Twitter phenomenon. Don’t get me wrong, self-indulgence and vanity are two of my favorite qualities. But the reason behind this narcissistic trend does not concern me. What troubles me—deeply, in fact—are the conversations between two Twitterers (Tweeters? Twatters? Twats? …Eh). I can’t decipher the curious, albeit inane, conversations between these egotistical, infamous freak-shows. Think about it, the only thing that separates these conceited fame hoes from professional circus freaks is a questionable white powdered line. But I digress… I don’t understand Twitter!! Just look at this tweet/twat/twit from the always humble and gracious Diddy, aka Puff Daddy, aka Sean Combs:

"RT @UncleRUSH: We are here for a short time, the ones who smile the most are the winners, be happy and smile alot"

Wise words, Diddy. But what the heck does RT mean?? Is Diddy passing some knowledge on to Uncle Rush or is it the other way around?? Ugh! Technology these days… But, thanks to a few gems Twitter is tolerable, perhaps even entertaining. John Mayer flaunts his witty humor with comments like,

"It's Fashion Week in NYC. Where are all the Talbot's models hanging out?"

I can’t hate on that! Perhaps because I grew up rockin the Talbots look, hmmmm. Best yet, Jessica Simpson showcases her brilliance with this harrowing tale about her dog:

"My heart is broken because a coyote took my precious Daisy right in front of our eyes. HORROR!"

A coyote?! What in the hell kind of Looney Tunes shiz is that? She even posted a reward, in which no doubt (!) the Roadrunner will be interested. Greedy betch!

HAGS

I spent the day willingly standing in the front lines of Activities Day, which turns out is the warm hued light igniting the night for the buzzing college populace. With no shelter to take, I depended on my hoodrat appearance as my only defense. Normally, I like to have more in my misanthrope arsenal when I venture into society. Yet… Bombarded by the enemy—the friendly, outgoing folk—and interrogated, I sacrificed words of superficiality and knew of no escape. Faint acquaintances lightly strolled through what was my nightmare. They approached me as a kind gesture—I did not see it as such. Forceful and hollow felt the conversations, each party desperately searching for a follow-up question to fan the conversation flames. No, I don’t care about what classes you’re taking! Oh you had a good summer, did you?? Are you sure it wasn’t just ok? No? So, it was good? Ok. So glad we clarified that. Now I can sleep at night.

Recognize this: I don’t care about dumb shiz!

A castle in the sky, one mile high

“Ah New York New York big city of dreams

And everything in New York ain't always what it seems"

For a quick second I thought I had my future planned out, engraved in a contractually obligated stone. Rejection hit hard, as it does when it malignantly resides in your blind spot. Your pride feels tender, even raw. The sudden declination scrapes away the fragile layer of confidence and success that enveloped the core. It’s never too thick a skin when confronted with such an attack that mocks your own reflection.

Still and all, the calluses, grown out of personal triumphs, will once again nurture my ego. Life goes on. And so it goes. And so it goes.

You betta work!

I’ve gone from one extreme to the next. Only last week was I living in a swanky NYC apartment and chasing after my dreams—well, not so much swanky and not really my dreams… Nevertheless! I was there. Now, I am secluded in the discomfort of my own parents’ home. I won’t lie to you, I haven’t stepped outside my house in over 48 hours. Not to get the mail, or walk my dog. Nope, I say my dog can fend for itself, herself. Whatever. The highlight of my day was finally sewing the gaping hole in the back of my sweatpants. Mind you, the unfortunately placed tear did not deter me from wearing those pants. No surprises there.

Needless to say, today was pretty much a success.

Dazed n confused

I woke up this morning with half my face stained red. It was upsetting to say the least. In part because of my initial surprise to find a blood colored parasitic splotch overtaking my right cheek. I thought the worst and subsequently panicked. I learned two things in the early summer hour of 9am: deep red sheets have a tendency to bleed when one drools on them and the freaking indelibility of the stain unwavers. I sit here now, hours later (hours!), still with a faint amoebic redness across half of my face. I look unfit for society.

Cold hands, cold heart

I am not sure how I developed this reputation at present but those surrounding me believe that I am a polite, delightfully reserved person. Never would I have thought this day possible. Yet if I disassemble the past few weeks, I realize this: I live my life in fear. Fear of what offense thing I might say. Fear of what obvious judgment I might throw around. Fear of what embarrassing moment might inflict its cruelty upon me. FEAR. It is a trepidation that only a greed so avaricious could burden me because truth be told I don’t give an effffff what fools like these think. I let shadows of my rightful nature creep out (naturally, for how else would representations of myself move about) which then cast a shadowy suspicion on the preconceived opinions. As I play rap music, I am flooded with statements of disbelief and recalibrating judgment: “I would have never pinned you as the type to like this kind of music.” In moments such as these, it is an internal struggle—a chasm, if I may be so bold—to keep the callous hip pop (no, not hip hop) and side-eye under wraps. Betch, please.

Don’t make me justified my thug.

Beauty is pain

The number of compliments that I get on this watch of mine is in every way proportional to its fantastical beauty. Just the other day, at Whole Foods no less, the cashier, who was the suave owner of great, flowing hair flattered my sense of style by declaring that my watch was wiiiiiild! Or at least, I took it as a compliment. He said it with such surprise that I sensed that it may have even offended him at first glance. Naturally that descriptive adjective causes me slight discomfort when used in my direction but I appreciated his interest. I was tempted to return the praise but I refrained from frantically declaring: Thanks your hair is WILD too. It was so silky… People with great hair probably live better lives than the rest of the world. They don’t even need to be that attractive because society perceives great hair as a rarity that forgives any shortcomings. If you think about it, a majority of the population has bad hair. I, myself, would categorize myself as the bridge that brings the two worlds together. Yes! I am the mediator that allows these two opposites to converse peacefully without inflicting churlish judgment. Without me this world would be polarized, I tell you! Society sees my hair and either mourns the unattended potential or rejoices in the valiant effort. Depends, depends…

But I digress, this fashionable watch, while rare in form but profuse in popularity, has caused me great unwarranted social grief. This watch is a conversation starter. And in my opinion, conversation starters only lead to personal damage and remorse. I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with a stranger that I have not regretted in some way. I leave each conversation a more miserable human being.

And I say that quite befittingly with a furrowed brow and a wicked cynicism far beyond my years.

Top that!

It’s days like these that unabashedly souligner my censored reasoning and my true hyperbolic nature. I possess the awkwardness of a pimply, “Teen Witch” loving twelve-year-old. For those who are unfamiliar with the masterpiece “Teen Witch,” I say this: you have not LIVED! ! I implore every man, woman and child to watch this visually stunning cinematic classic. Yes, wipe away the white crusty residue on that Proactive bottle because it will get wild.

Behold! Perrrrfection!!

Zachary Quinto is the owner of some magnificently prominent eyebrows. Those beautifully arched caterpillars are fantastically full. Worship them!

New York City, where dreams go to get roughed up a little bit

Imma keep this short since I’ve got some bizzzzness to take care of.

I knew New York and myself were an amiable match when walking along 6th Ave I heard an enthusiastic street performer singing an oddly upbeat rendition of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” with the help of a portable karaoke machine. Such fortune befell me to pass by just in time to feel the profundity radiating from this gifted, and possibly homeless, man. As he sang, “But let me start by saying… I love youuuu” and extended his arms to the only passerby (me.), I could feel the unhygienic love coming my way. SWOOOOONNNNN!

Scholastic inquiries

As I watch the steady rain wash away the dead heat of a summer’s day and baste the green life until permeated with a vibrant gloss, I begin to contemplate one of life’s more convoluted questions that only the cleansing rainfall can induce me to answer...

Why is it that the majority of cute kids—and I use the word “cute” hesitantly because let’s face it, a blob is a blob—seem to grow up fugly? Is it because they use up all their good looks early so the only natural progression is toward the disagreeable aesthetic? Interestingly enough, the other kids who are shunned by onlookers and questioned if it be a boy or girl tend to grow into their looks, and thus improve over time. THAT IS SOME BENJAMIN BUTTON SHIZ!

Now some of you may be shocked and horrified, but maybe some proof will put your outrage at ease:

To begin, here is George Clooney, then and now, as an extreme example of someone growing into their looks.












Almost unrecognizable!! Javier Bardem's No Country for Old Men character would be jealous of that coiffure. Based off of that hot mess to tha left, Mr. Clooney has come a long 'n triumphant way.

On to the next! Who else has fought the good fight and came out victorious? Drew Barrymore, for one.














It's a miracle!! Those brows once looked hopeless paired with that feathered 80s hair. But no more! Though Drew has experimented with an infinite number of hair colors and styles in the past, she has most certainly locked down a look that works for her now. Rejoice!

Andrew Lawrence is another champ that overcame the same adversities Drew Barrymore and George Clooney faced. You may recognize him from the Disney show Brotherly Love, though no one would blame you if you don't. You see, Andrew was unfortunate enough to have 2 attractive brothers while he was just a doughy kid with floppy hair. But behold the transformation!











Dayummm! And we all know what Joey Lawrence looks like now... I'm just saying...

But wait! They can't all be as fortunate as the examples above. It's a cruel world to some. My primary, and best, example is that little boy from the Jerry Maguire movie. Poor kid, he was at the top of his game at the age of 6. And now, look at him!!
















I know there are exceptions to this rule, or perhaps these are the exceptions, but you cannot deny it!!! I'm simply making observations (with irrefutable proof). Accept it, fools!!

It's jealousy but don't tell anyone!

Today power-hungry (or is it just hungry?) Oprah pityingly revealed another one of her secrets of the world that she hides in her inflated hair, which is filled with secrets. Filled! I would tell you, but I’m trying to collect my own secrets to form a kind of repertoire, if you will, so I too can benefit from the wonders of voluminous hair. By the end of summer, I hope to have the most grandiose hair and credit it, not to the vengeful humidity, but to my proliferated secrets. Pinky will ask me what we're doing tonight, to which I will respond: the same thing we do every night, Pinky, try and take over the world!!! With Oprah’s hair, there’d be no stopping me!

Sinnerman

My night consisted of watching a melodramatic Lifetime movie (…I know…) instead of cracking the surface of a 20-page French paper, an assignment signifying all that is wrong with the French (another story for another time). Needless to say, I learned two very important things from the gripping tale “Live Once, Die Twice.” First: you can die more than once; and second: men are not to be trusted!!! Especially men who fake their own deaths so they can embezzle platinum bars and escape from their Long Island and Detroit wives. Naturally as the story goes, the two wives bond over their murderous husband’s web of lies and form a lasting friendship. Moral of this story:

All men are murderers. OBVIOUSLY.

We have to stick together, ladies! Even if the other was secretly married to your husband. Sisterhood of the traveling pants that drama shiz back where it belongs, OK! Repress those betchy feelings deep down and only allow them to cat-fight their way out when making backhanded compliments and gossiping behind the other’s back. Ah, true friendship! It stands the test of time… Or something.

Facebook official

I mistook a chocolate chip for a bug, which made my reaction to the charlatan all the more nonsensical. My foolery must have been because I declined a message from God on Facebook earlier today. I knew the moment I clicked decline that I would soon face the wrath of God, for no one, deities included, possesses immunity to the pangs—pangs, I say!—of Facebook rejection. And by golly, no, by God (!) I knew the fury would come down mercilessly upon me.

And so it did.

Blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol

My travels back to Virginia proved to be the perfect representation of my home state. The closer to arriving, the more brazen its character became.

At the airport in Boston, I quickly compromised my morals (for financial gain, naturally). Now to those who might be shocked at the very possibility that I possess morals, I must first say: JERKS! And second, frankly say: I too am occasionally surprised for I tend to forget about those slight details. Nevertheless, it turned out to be an advantage that did not go with out shame. I place the blame on, not my denial-crazed self of course, but on my exponentially growing frugal nature, which needless to say blames the economy! That’s how the dice roll in blame game…

Once I made my way through Security (luckily being culturally hazardous to society is no need for alarm), I took a seat at my terminal. Despite empty seats everywhere, a guy wearing a fitted hat and crisp white sneakers sat next to me bringing with him a thick atmosphere of cheap cologne. His luggage invaded my personal space and his boxers protruded out of the top of his dangling jeans. Enough said. I gave heavy side-eye but it was lost in the Axe-polluted smog. I worried the douchebag smell would stick to me causing hypocrisy and reinforcement that I am in fact a douche!! I couldn’t risk catching the disease so I moved seats.

After boarding the plane, I noticed the seat to my left was empty. As each passenger shuffled down the isle, I remained cautious yet expressively honest with my reaction until they passed my row. A woman carrying a grumpy child stepped on the plane… NOOOO!!! Nothing is worse. She continued to the back of the plane. Behind her, an old man wearing a medical mask and gloves inspected the row numbers with confusion. Swine flu or paranoia?!?! The difference is paramount! He settled in two rows back from me. Finally a portly man, whose potbelly lost tragically in a battle with gravity, aggressively waddled to the seat next to me and threw his body weight down. His Harley Davidson jacket accentuated his business in the front, party in the back hairstyle and his dirt-stained t-shirt that conservatively needed another two inches of fabric in length.

I flipped through the channels and settled on an episode of Family Guy. The red-neck (literally!) beast showed no restraint when heartily commenting on what I was watching, despite having his own screen. I quickly switched to CNN; he fell taciturn. The selection of drinks did not satisfy him, so he ordered a Bud Light. I half expected him to shotgun the beer, and he did, only in a more socially modest manner (if such a thing exists). The unconventional in-flight entertainment continued after he finished the beer; he knocked something off his tray onto my foot. When I tried to pick up whatever fell, he grumbled, “It’s just ice.” Ohhh ok, no problem! He then discovered the radio wherein the power of country music overtook him, as it does to the hillbilly demographic. When it got to be too much banjo rhythm to hold back, he wailed and hollered inebriated lyrics. Everyone but him seemed to mind. Typical, Virginia, typical…

Life in the fast lane

A lot has happened since last. I am now a college Senior, which means one treacherous stride closer to starting the “real” world, where seven strangers are picked to live in a house and have their lives taped—oh wait, that’s not it. Then whilst celebrating, not so much 21 years of life but rather the first few hours of being 21, I bent the limits of social etiquette to a dangerous angle that would have made fancy people quiver, as I imagine they do. Yes, when the hands on the clock aligned at midnight on May 6th, I was already too deeply involved in the insurmountable festivities to possess awareness of time or responsibility. It was, I think, a great foreshadowing of what’s to come. I won’t go into too many details for obvious reasons but I will tease you with this: It involved sweatpants. MSNBC News. And cookies. Use your imagination to piece together the rest.

Now that you know, I readily reject your judgment.

Caution: egocentricity follows

In an attempt to frantically escape all future responsibilities, I lived these past few days introverted and too selfish to care about any foreseen consequences—knowing not the severity of my slumped posture, but assured of the fact that it will indeed influence my future self. I cannot help but continue in my undeniably insatiable quest for peace of mind. How can one reconcile two clashing beliefs when both seem plausible despite each gliding dangerously close above irrationality in comparison?

Money makes the world go ‘round. It is an inevitable fact that countless dreamers try to refute, but reality, once the idealisms dissipate, solidifies the untold truth. Money is influence is power is change. What kind of change, depends. We’ve all seen the varying shades of that spectrum. But as I become more fondly aware of the simpler wonders of life, I can’t help but notice a personal shift in priorities and expectations. Once driven by money and future (corporate) power, I can no longer connect to that former greedy craving. What I want from the everyday doesn’t come from—or at least not directly from—the number of bills in my wallet or the number on my paycheck. This is not to say that the work I do should go unjustly overlooked; recognition, both in monetary and societal terms, is what drives human ambition—that and the possibility of personal and professional advancement. It is clear that everything monetarily is a constant in this rapidly changing world. The burden of bills and taxes will forever remain countered against the dollar value of your income and investments. Isolating the issue from external factors, what can be a personal choice, in my present opinion, is how heavily you place a value on your individual monetary gains amongst the rest.

The rest, of course, being anything and everything.

It's a lifestyle

My brief but valuable experiment as a hermit has come to an end. I managed to peel my half-melted worth from the sofa and gather up the crumbs of a careless pastime when food was too bountiful to completely consume. I conjured up all my strength to turn off the MTV Cribs marathon and retreated back into my room exhausted from the sudden bouts of movement. My own will power was not capable of doing what I have just described itself. No, by the force of embarrassing encounters did I then pry myself from my full commitment to living like a bum.

Earlier today, wrapped up in a blanket and unkempt, I was staring mindlessly into another among countless Cribs episodes. I could feel my brain melting into distortion more and more every time a celebrity said: “Now this is where the ‘magic’ happens.” My brain snapped back into form when I heard someone punch in the room code. Entered one of my roommates, her parents, grandparents, and siblings. All of whom I’m sure were just as surprised to see my fraggle rock self as I was to see them. Now, making small talk is not one of my strong points. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rather, I proceeded to watch Cribs with her grandparents looking on, trying to decipher the Hollywood narcissism. The judgment and confusion felt heavy enough to require some sort of distraction, one that I found in slurping on my soda in an effort to extract every last molecule.

Once they all shuffled out of the room, I knew my time was up. The past several days have been fantastically solitary, but nothing like that should last very long for risk of losing my sanity. I’m sure I was borderline maniacal. Yeah… Judging by the deep imprint I left on that sofa, I was pulled from the edge of madness just in time.

Moderation (in moderation)

I write this to you while laying in bed, in the dark. Just today, I have eaten—brace yourself—three bowls of cereal, a chocolate croissant, a package of animal crackers, two slices of pizza, two cup of noodles and another entire box of cereal. I excluded the beverages in order to maintain some sort of dignity. Irregardless (Mean Girls reference), one might have described my appetite as ravenous, but I just call it another day. Once I capped my calorie intake for tha day, I unbuttoned my jeans to release the chokehold on my filled belly. I thought it best before the strain breached the unforgiving woven threads of my sliming jeans. Ironic? Indeed!

Why haven't I found another

I was asked today if I was a baller. My steadfast reply was quite simply: Yes, yes I am a baller.

Huzzah!

I am determined to carry on! Nothing but laziness can stop me. In the past it may have taken the best of me but no more, I say!

Now, as I was saying in my mind… Awkwardness fervently follows me everywhereeeee. Now, people have told me before that I inexplicably end up in these situations where the method of torture is uncontrollable awkwardness. I could not agree more! I came to this conclusion after witnessing a rare, inconceivably embarrassing incident in which I acted only as a spectator—for once. Last week after class my friend spoke of fatigue and hunger, both sufferings will inevitably lead to your sympathies. As we shuffled out of class trying to escape the mind numbing sensation, my friend turned the corner on an unusual substance which then caused her to slide down to the floor in a mere second without a clear memory of how she ended up there. ‘Twas TUNA SALAD! Yes, the food that has kept me half alive—I’m sure the high levels of mercury negate any benefits of protein intake—these past three years at college was the reason for my friend’s upright demise. She recovered quickly but the smears of the old, musty tuna on the right side of her body could not hide her shame. With our entire class behind us trying to comprehend the odds of slipping on tuna salad, I tried unsuccessfully to reassure my friend that no one had seen what had taken place and therefore, I assured her with such arrogant fallacy, by the laws of twisted physics it never happened. I repeat: IT. NEVER. HAPPENED.

Outrageous denial is how I live my life.

It's not me, it's you

BACK. IN. BUSINESS. Whaaaaaaaat?! Ok, soooo Paris is over ‘n done. The relationship naturally ran its course. We were both blissfully unaware of reality in the beginning. The flaws between us seemed transparent and whipped past us like the wind. As time aged, our interpretation of reality began to darken into an acrimonious prospect. All attempts of recovering what was appeared to be only an outpouring of desperate nostalgia despite the overwhelming sensation of a lost cause. Denial trod deep in the surface of happy memories, but time had broken the threshold of disillusionment. One more agonizing hour may have unleashed turmoil and unwelcome hatred. We parted with closure, content. Now with hindsight sharp enough to cut down any lingering doubts, I can fairly say that I love Paris but I think I love the U.S. more.

I've moved on!