Where yo boss at??

I have nothing to blog about. My mom always told me, if you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all. If I had followed that advice when it was given, I would be a mute child. However, I’ll make an exception this time.

But let’s get one thing straight. I’m a boss! And don’t forget it.

Survival of the fittest

This past weekend was all about the extremity. I mean, HOT DANG it was intense! It began early Friday morning past, when I thought Karma had hit its threshold and pondered the idea of correcting my foregoing reprehensible behavior. The flight to Salzburg confronted death head on in its miniature aircraft equipped with propellers, not jets. While my roommate KC slept undisturbed—surprisingly, without the help of tranquilizers—Abby and I weathered, quite literally, through the storm. If I were capable of crying, the tears would have been streaming down my fear-stricken face. I contemplated escape plans in hopes of ensuring a higher chance of survival. I questioned my coat’s potential with a lunatic eye: Could this act as a parachute if need be? As we embarked on our descent through the tempestuous clouds, I knew it would require a fight in which Nature wouldn’t play fair. A fight, it was indeed; one that left me physically ill and mentally disturbed. I walked off that plane, legs shaking against my confounded will. How I survived, I cannot say. I feel like I gained years of wisdom on that flight—perhaps because the stress aged me twenty years.

The extreme theme continued when Abby and KC tricked Anne and me into climbing up a mountain to see a fortress. Yes, a fortress. Instead of taking the funicular (that would have been too easy), we dragged ourselves up an icy, treacherous mountain in the name of tourism. Unprepared for climbing mountains, Anne and I wobbled our way up all the while cursing the likelihood of crashing to the icy ground which would then lead us to slip down the mountain. Perilous, I say!

We ventured on… The Sound of Music bus tour followed. It may not seem so extreme after a few near-death encounters, but let me correct you. FOUR hours of singing musical numbers, including miserable imitations of Julie Andrews' voice, could be nothing but extreme! The campy bus with a Sound of Music drawing plastered all around it treaded through Salzburg and up into the mountains while our tour guide, Trudy, squeaked corny-ass jokes and Sound of Music trivia. It was everything I hate most in the world, all trapped into one seemingly small bus. EXTREME!

The hills are aaaaalive

Blahhhh… I just ate an entire box of cereal in under two hours. I rested a huge bowl filled to the rim below my chin so as to limit the distance my spoon had to travel to my mouth. I kept the cereal box in proximity in order to persuade numerous refills. What is wrong with me?! ...Rhetorical question. Damn Special Form for being so deliciously addictive!!! Now, Special Form is the poor man’s Special K, but I didn’t seem to care. I’m not broke (yet) but it befits my lifestyle so well that I can’t object to the label. When someone accuses me of being cheap, all I can do is shrug my shoulders in unconcerned accordance. Why argue with the truth?

But my cheap-ass will be traveling to SALZBURG, AUSTRIA tomorrow!!!! Yeah, that’s right, where The Sound of Music was filmed. Control your jealousy, fools! It’s gonna be badass!!

Tales to be told

OMG! I have sooooooo much to explain!! To do so, a series of disjointed anecdotes will recount the important events of the past several days…

Ok, Portugal. Not only was the weather amazing, but the universe also graciously gave me the opportunity to DENY some kid’s game. Yeahhhh it was just the kind of vacation I needed. This kid—though, I shouldn’t say “kid” since he was 26—was wuuuurkinnnn it hard! Which gave me all the more satisfaction shutting that down!! I was like, Not today, son!

Back in Paris, I saw the most incredible visual polarity on Rue Notre Dame des Champs—also known as my hood, holla! While walking to my favorite hot spot (the discount grocery store), I heard an unfamiliar buzzing noise that became more and more thunderous with each step. Veiled in a cold sweat, I searched feverishly for the echoing sound in every shadowy crevice. Finally, my eyes caught sight of swerving orange blob off in the distance. As the shape skidded closer, the reality of this sight began to focus. The vibrating hum came from an elderly, half-melted woman cruising at top speed in her electric wheelchair. Precariously navigating the road, she harshly puffed on a cigarette with one gnarled hand and controlled the wheelchair with the other. A fluorescent orange flag attached to the back of her chair thrashed at full mast while she hacked up a previous life in between her slow exhalations of nicotine. I stopped my stride to acknowledge the rarity of such a sight. I almost pulled out my camera but then I thought, “Nah I don’t want to be one of those people…”

It’s official. I have a new favorite neighborhood hobo!!!! Finally. My previous fave just couldn’t keep up with the competition. This hobo is spectacular, he shames all the other bums. KC abruptly pointed him out to me while walking home from class the other day. He must of found enough change on the streets because he was sitting at a café, making everyone around him uneasy. Prolonging his chance to blend in with the rest of society, he smoked a cigarette with great leisure calling attention to the drunken arrogance of his cross-legged posture. His lanky build prompted his knobby limbs to stick out into the street, wherein I noticed that one of his dirty socks didn't have a slipper covering it like the other. But this didn’t prohibit him from enjoying his wine-induced hazy life. No, he mumbled a few words in a caroling voice and elegantly waved to passersby while swaying back and forth in his chair. Before we passed him, he let out a jolly, delirious laugh and flicked his cigarette in such a grandiose manner. He was the only one in on the joke but he continued on. Yeah, he’s a classy one.

Great expectations

Please read/act out the following sentence like you’re a professional Oprah impersonator: I’m going to PORTUGAAAALLLLLLLL!!!!!!! Yeah, eff this cold weather! I’m heading to a country with some agreeably lukewarm weather, holla! My expectations are possibly unreasonable but I anticipate that every guy under the age of 30 will be looking fiiiiiiiiine. I only hope my dreams won’t be crushed…

Oh I forgot to mention this earlier but I (temporarily) broke my bed. Who knew jumping on it like a immature little girl would have such consequences?? Following my third or forth victory jump, I heard a fracturing noise beneath my feet. I gave it a few more jumps before deciding to quit in fear of collapsing the bed’s foundation. But it seemed that at 4am my bed had all it could take. A pulsating crash broke the silence of the night, plummeting my motionless body the length of a few inches. And what’s worse, it disturbed my sleep. I laid there, eyes thrown up and breathing densely, trying to piece together why I was sinking into a vortex-like dent in my mattress. The next morning I chose to omit this vital detail to my host mother when she asked how I was doing. I thought it was for the best. When she thought I broke her washing machine, we didn’t hear that deafening spin cycle sound for a month! I can’t go that long without a bed, ok. That’s ridiculous.

Panty raid!!!!!!!!

Something occurred chez Pottier that was of the most alarming nature. I’m not sure what to make of it. The other day my host sister approached me, dangling on her finger a pair of used-and-abused women’s underwear. She asked me if they belonged to me. Horrified that she thought I had such ill taste in underwear, I gave a determined, Noooooo. Continuing on, she then asked her mother—and considering the out-dated style of the underwear, well it made sense to me. However that wasn’t the case. KC dismissed them at first sight; she said she had a pair similar to them in the eighth grade from Old Navy and feared for a second that they had come back to haunt her, HA! So, using scientific deduction, I concluded that if the underwear did not belong to any of the women living in the house in which they were found then… Perhaps… Someone had a female guest over! Scandalous. But who would bring home the kind of girl who then leaves her underwear lying around where Mother Mary statues could see them, judge them?! Yes, I’m afraid that I have to again impose all judgment on the 32 year-old son. He’s too much of an anomaly to suppose anyone else in the house holds responsibility! But could it be that the adult son, who if one ignores his physical appearance could mistake him for an infant child, is popular with the ladies??? A disturbing thought indeed.

Following the emergence of this upsetting possibility, I found myself alone in the kitchen with him for a brief but altering minute. He was standing behind me, silently waiting for me to move. Rather than verbalize like an adult, he chose to stare at me with such severity that I could feel his numbing glare. I turned around, jolting him back into reality a little too soon. I guess he couldn’t grab his voice in time because in response he whispered in an incredibly unbefitting Fabio-esque voice: Paaarrrdon. Realizing his secured merit of embarrassment, he scurried past me quickly enough to miss my judgment-inflicted reaction. My head jerked down as if the awkwardness had hit me on the top of my head; my eyebrows broke unison due to a range of emotion, one raised in shock, the other frowned in confusion; my mouth simultaneously dropped open and remained agape until I was ready to articulate myself, which required several seconds to let out a flailing: Whhhaaaat. Just. Happened?? Oh yes, this adult-child is awkward—far beyond my own degree of awkwardness. He’s on a whole ‘nothaaaa level! It’s just so comforting to know that there’s someone out there FAR more awkward than yourself. Yeahhhh…

I can sleep easy tonight.

I got 99 problems...

Soooo I feel like one of those lame, acne-plagued dweebs from high school that obsesses over the popular kids in an impossible attempt to move up in the social food chain.

…Explanation is necessary since I was speaking in figurative terms; my skin is flawless, ok. Now, I, like the Good Samaritan I am, gave alllllll my marketing notes to a girl, who did not appear to be of the untrustworthy nature, for her to copy. This occurred two weeks ago. Do I have my notes?? NOPE. This betch skipped the last class and left me sitting in an effin French class for three hours. Ohhh the hatred was brewing! With each minute filled with mounting confusion due to the speed of the professor’s lecture and the absence of my notes, I aged into a cynical, petulant being. My exact thoughts after I realized she wasn’t coming lashed out: “This betch isn’t coming, is she? Mothaaaa…. She betta be dying!” However after a few hours of cursing this girl’s existence, I began to overlook this presage and gave her the benefit of the doubt—perhaps she really was dying, in which case I began to worry if it took a turn for the worse how I would ever get my notes back. Selfish thoughts aside, over the course of the next few days, I sent her emails, facebook messages, texts, and even called her. Now, to those who know me, I did in fact voluntarily pick up my phone with the intention of communicating with a human being. That’s a testament to how desperate I felt. Either she was ignoring me or she was dead—for even a deathly ill person would have texted me! But I REFUSE to be ignored. So after more emails and texts, the girl finally sent me a facebook message. She casually mentioned that she’s in Lyon until Sunday (betch!) and that she’s sorry for the inconvenience but I shouldn’t worry. Ummm, don’t tell me how to feel, ho! Betches cannot be trusted, ok!

That was the last good deed I do pro bono. It’s society’s loss now, fools.