Making New Friends

   I have often heard people- young people with their lives ahead of them- say, "I don't need anymore friends in my life", or something to that effect. I get that in the context of trying to ward off creepy men, but otherwise wtf? Like actually, making a new friend especially as you progress through life becomes even more exciting because its harder to do. When people want to be friends with you, its the best feeling in the world (if they cool). If they not cool, whatever, just tell them you have swim practice and can't hang out. No one's forcing you.
   People who decide not to need new friends have clearly never witnessed an old person grow attached to a domestic animal. You're never too old! Never!
   Its crazy to think about how quickly small children make friends. Jerry Seinfeld does a bit on it. But I would argue that that basically is still how friendship works when you're in university: bonding over very simple common likes. Drop Grumpy Cat into a casual conversation: BAM you just made nine new friends. I'm not even joking, I'm pretty sure I made at least two friends using this fool proof method.
   Anyway, I'm a quarter of the way through my life and I am making friends like its 1999. I recommend it. Makes you feel good about yourself and limits the possibility of dying alone in a room full of fudge.

Christmas Desserts

   Why does most Christmas candy taste like shit? I've actually been eating more candy canes this year than I have ever before in my life, because I am using them as meal replacements. I will admit that I am developing a taste for them, but its not like anyone has ever listed candy canes in their favourite foods or among items they would bring to a desert island.
      Forget about candy canes though, whats up with those chocolate mounds with the red goo inside? My mum loves that shit but I don't even know what its supposed to be. Also, the picture on the box makes it look kind of remind me of R2D2, or a demon egg. Nothing says the spirit of Christmas like:

Also: sugarplums. Whatup with that? I think I speak for everyone under the age of 70 when I say I've never even tasted a sugar plum. Its not even a plum apparently. It can refer to any kind of dried candy. I'm starting to wonder if its even edible... I'm just confused at this point.

Not what you were expecting right? 100% misleading. 

   Last one, and by far worst of all is Christmas cake. The vile mess created by the ultimate Scrooge to ruin every child's Christmas. An old lady who is vaguely related to you offers you a piece of cake and you say yes, because you love baked goods. Except this is a baked bad. If a fruit salad, rock candy and a bran muffin got together for a crazy orgy, this would be the result of the unwanted pregnancy. Christmas cake sucks.

IN WHAT WORLD IS THIS OK??!!

Satanic Kitchenware

   As you may have noticed, part of my being a Creative Writing Major involves me being a creative person. I also have some creative friends, and sometimes we talk about creative things, creatively of course. My friend and I were being very distracted from lecture today because we kept laughing about satanic toasters. If you haven't seen the satanic toaster video, search that up right now. Are you back? Did you watch it? Good. Its hilarious and so my friend and I started thinking of the best satanic kitchenware. The main point that we agreed on is that it has to be something entirely non-menacing, because all it does it preach satanic ideas, its not trying to kill you or anything. So that rules out anything that has a mouth or something bitey, because thats a little scary. Here I have compiled the best satanic kitchenware and why, enjoy!
1. Satanic french press- It has no mouth, first of all, and nothing that could even be moderately intimidating.
2. Satanic salt n' pepper shakers- they wouldn't even be able to walk, and if their satanic phrases started bothering you, you could just unscrew their heads.
3. Satanic popcorn maker- I imagine the popcorn maker would be really overzealous, but how often do you really make popcorn anyway?
4. Satanic cupcake iron- the mere fact that this exists is so comical that there is no way its satanism would be frightening. Also its gotta stay leashed to the wall.

I imagine that all these appliances have different catchphrases, but being well-versed in creative techniques Imma let you imagine those for yourself. The main thing to remember is these appliances don't want to scare or hurt you, they just want to spread their beliefs and ultimately save you from a misguided life. If they could, I bet these satanic appliances would stand on street corners and outside metro stations armed with religious comic books and pamphlets.





...See what I did there?

8:30 Fucking A.M

   Look at me, I'm writing and its FUCKING 8:30 AM. Why am I awake at fucking 8:30 a.m you ask? Well its a funny story. But not funny ha-ha, like hold-me-back-and-keep-all-knives-away-because-I'm-going-to-kill-everyone/hide-yo-kids-hide-yo-wife funny. The basement apartment below me is occupied by this weird french man who is somehow integral to the maintenance of this building. His sister lives in the adjacent apartment and is more legit, and actually speaks in a language other than grunts.
   It is customary for this man, every, morning to move furniture on his ceiling so that it wakes me up. Don't ask me how he does it, I suspect black magic. There's also a little fence in area running alongside the building where my downstairs neighbours chill after a long night's sleep, you know, to unwind or whatever. The door leading to this area happens to be right under my window. Fuck. Me. This has been a problem all year, and yes I did buy earplugs but 35 decibels is actually only as loud as a refrigerator hum, and that is the most intense kind that a drugstore will sell you.
   Its bad enough that for the past two weeks its been taking me two hours to fall asleep, but now I am waking up before the cock even crows. For real, what the fuck? I have fucking late class tonight, and exams are approaching. Cut me some slack, God. I've been being really mature through some rough times lately but if there is one thing I can't stand its being awake at 8:30 fucking a.m.
   I'd like to mention I was also awake for a half hour at 6 a.m today but I calmly lay resting until the ruckus stopped. And then started again at 8:30. I went down to see what the fuck was happening, why I didn't get the invite to the 8:30 upside-down dance party on the ceiling and I was nearly mauled to death by the housekeeper's two corgis. I don't even know if they're fucking corgis but they're small and they never shut the fuck up. Not only do they contribute to waking me up half the time, but they're so loud I'm sure they're waking up Jesus above too. So when the demons had been called off I inquired about the noise and the lady said "oh, we were just arranging an area with a lot of wood. It won't happen again."
   What. Even. DOES THAT FUCKING MEAN?? Why is there an area with a lot of wood indoors, and why does it need arranging at 8:30 fucking a.m?? At least now I know that should I be driven to arson, the building will light up like the fourth of fucking July. I was being so patient too, waiting for the noise to pass, and it never did. And now that I'm fucking wide awake, it appears to be much quieter.  Fucking 8:30 fucking a.m...

Tattwo

   Sorry mum and dad, I got sum fr3$h !nk. Thats how I have to talk now because I have more than one tattoo now which means that I am extremely artistic and rebellious.
   Realtalk though, I had a much better overall experience this time than I did my first time around. People have been asking me if this one hurt more than the last one. For starters, both my tattoos are real simple- this one was a custom design of an original drawing that I did myself- so that puts them on an even playing field. Lets examine the rest of the factors shall we:
Placement
Tat 1: on the back of my arm, above my elbow
Tat 2: top of my foot
Crew
Tat 1: went to my appointment wit a full blown posse, some of whom were close friends, others who were kinda random. I'm just so popular. Don't hate me cuz you ain't me.
Tat 2: went to appointment with two friends who were able to come into the room with me.
First Impressions of Artist
Tat 1: Italian. Intimidating.
Tat 2: Grills. Like legit grills, not tinfoil. Straight thuggin'. Ghetto booty. Began playing hardcore rap while prepping his equipment.

   What I'm getting at is that I can't tell which one hurt more really. You would think that the foot would hurt more because the skin is less exposed. There were certain moments when he was going over veins that it hurt notably more than other moments. The experience I had this time around was more positive. I am a really awkward person which I think makes hardcore people such as tattoo artists think I'm going to be a big wimp and often, they are totally right. My artist was really cool though (I hesitate to say best friends, although we did bond over sketchbooks/ journals and how personal they are), and I think he was probably impressed that I didn't squirm or cry or anything. It helped a lot having friends in the room who I could say awkward things to. Example:
*tattooing begins*
Me: Oh. Yes. Right. That just feels so natural.
My friends: What?

Its best that I have someone there who knows me so they can absorb my awkwardness. Thanks guys. It helped also that while I was at first intimidated by my artist, he was actually a pretty cool guy and made the experience that more memorable. Also, having my own design felt pretty special. I wanted the lines to be kind of shaky as they were in the original piece to which my artist responded, "Ok. I'm going to make em wobbly but let me do that", as if to say "don't move your fucking foot". And I didn't move my foot at all. Ten out of ten for being a hardcore rebel bitch.

Giving Blood- The Adventures of Lil' Vein

   I had quite the adventure at the pop-up blood donor clinic on campus today! Its not my first time giving blood and its a really good thing to do a) because it literally saves lives b) because you get free cookies and muffin bars at the end. This was my second time giving blood, and since I'm planning on getting another tattoo in the very near future I figured its now or never (never in this case being six months from now). I went in, gave them my card, answered all the sex questions (no, I have never traded sex for drugs, stop asking!), told them I preferred they take blood from my left arm. I am led into one of the crazy awkwardly angled chairs. The nurse then asks me if I weigh under 110 pounds and I laugh in her face/ cry in my soul. I should mention that this takes place right beside a huge glass wall looking out onto the downtown core, so pedestrians get to witness your awkward life first hand.
   After about ten minutes of trying to get some signs of life out of my left arm, the nurse told me we were going to have to do the right. No problem I say, because I am easy-going and am saving lives, happily awaiting my muffin bar. It takes another ten minutes to find a pulse on my right arm at which point I am told I have tiny tiny veins. I take this as a compliment. The nurse tells me the needle wouldn't have even fit in my left arm vein despite the fact that I can see it through my tissue-paper skin. Apparently the visuals have nothing to do with it; you learn something new every day, I think to myself as I contemplate whether I'll be able to smuggle a juice box into my purse on the way out.
   Once the needle is actually inside me (and it takes a while to find the vein once its inside me), the nurses are all very cautious of me and ask my if I feel ok, or if I'm in pain roughly every minute. In the words of Biggie Smalls, I am sittin' fat, livin' good. I don't tell the nurses this exact quote because I'm speaking to them in my broken french, which is actually serving me pretty well and I feel good about it.
   All is well until the nurse calls over another nurse and says a word I recognize but can't quite place. Apparently my blood has stopped- this is the gist of it. But don't worry, I don't die. The nurses continue to ask me how I feel and I nod and say "bien" many many times. They then inform me I have a clot, but they are speaking so french that this doesn't really strike me with any worry until a little later. They say its fine, nothing to worry about. They poke the needle around inside me which is not the most pleasant experience but whatever, the muffin bar will be worth it.
   One of the nurses then promptly decides after saying that "its at 101" they should remove the needle immediately. I'm cool with that. They tell me they have enough blood to give to a person- rock on. I am then ushered over to a volunteer who asks me about school (in french) and its only a little awkward. Then I get to eat muffin bars, which aren't actually particularly good, I just think they're really funny. They tell me I might have a small bruise, which translates to you will definitely have a giant bruise. Its true. I'm developing a galaxy larger than our milky way on my forearm. The nebula is already there, and the Hubble has photos already.
   As I leave I see a guy making a really anguished face as he lies in his chair. I lol in my head really hard. Its been a good day.

First-Time Freezy

   I can't remember if I've written about this before, but it doesn't even matter if I have because you can't enough of a good thing. This summer I was waiting in line for the teller at a bank, after almost getting hit with a streetcar while riding my bike- that part's not important though. What is important is that on this particular summer's day it was hotter outside than the devil's wig. So one of the bank employees came out and offered everyone in line a freezy; me, the older man behind me, and the ancient man behind him.
   For the record, I took blue because blue is the best one. Anyway, the bank lady offered one to the ancient man and he said in the sweetest old man voice, "well I don't know, what is it?". Like imagine an old Jimmy Stewart saying that. Imagine! Well I didn't have to imagine because I saw it with my eyes.
   The not-so-old man proceeded to explain what it a freezy is and as the delicious treat melted in the old man's mouth, my heart melted in my thoracic cavity.

Rebranding the Push-Up Bra

   I think some serious rebranding of the push-up bra is in order. I can see why some women feel that the lingerie industry objectifies women. I get it one hundred percent. I will admit to owning a couple push-up bras though and hear me out on this one. I acknowledge that products such as the triple push-up are just glorified version of the ol' grade seven sock in bra trick. Y'all ladies should be happy with your bodies, and not feel the need to manipulate it in order to look "sexy" according to unrealistic, misogynist societal standards. On the one hand, I own push-ups bras, on the other hand, I feel guilty for promoting an unrealistic idea of the female body. I have a marketing solution that I think would make everyone happy in terms of Canadian lingerie consumership.
   Today I was doing my usual Sunday thing; eating toast, writing last minute essays and wearing crew neck sweaters. I decided to go outside and walk around to clear my head, so I had to throw on a bra. But not for the reason you might think. I don't care about showing off my fancy feminine form, but its cold outside now, and I need me some layers. This is when the push-up bra comes most in handy in my life. The extra padding really makes a difference and I'm pretty sure thats why Kate Winslet lived in the Titanic, because she was wearing a heavily-insulated bra.
   The rebranding of push-up bras as winterwear would sit well with feminists and effectively sell bras to all sane women. Instead of presenting giant billboards of a young woman looking coyly over her shoulder in nothing but a pair of panties (hate that word) that say "tease me" in a twirly font, why not show a woman exuding warmth and ease as she scales Mt. Everest, leaving her unisex companions to eat her snow dust because she is snug as a bug in a padded bra. I agree with this. Everyone would be happy. You can thank me later, Victoria's Secret.

What Happened to "New Girl"?

   Season 1 of Fox TV's series New Girl was a pretty big hit I'd say, and rightly so because it was really funny. I was among many who awaited the second season with much anticipation. Much to my most sincere chagrin, most of the recent episodes have been falling flat. The first few episodes in the season were decent, but I can think of at least three recent ones that were incredibly "meh".
   Maybe its the anticipation of many of the episodes being withheld over the US election campaign due to the debates, and voting night, I don't know. But New Girl is going nowhere fast. Actually, my friends and I have noticed a more conservative (see episode where Schmidt pretends to be Tag Romney, spends whole episode endorsing Romney family), slightly racist (why does the only black character never have any real plot of his own? He only ever serves to advance white characters' plots), politically incorrect (the magical, zen asian man) tendency in the recent episodes. I would not consider myself to be the most politically correct person all the time, but when you are writing for a popular TV show, some things are just no-brainers.
   What weirds me out the most is that season 1 was such a success by comparison. The characters were fresh and quirky, but you could buy into it. Now the characters just seem insane to me. I don't know if thats a product of the acting or the writing despite the fact that I used to be a big fan of both on the show. Nothing is really happening long-term in the show either. Its like everyone is just kind of floating without purpose, and that purpose is desperately needed to ground the almost too large for life characters.
   My theory is that a lot of this plot stagnancy comes from the potential/ expected romance between Jess and Nick. We've been brought to a point so far where we know its gonna happen, one way or another, we're all just waiting for it. This is an horrible corner to write yourself into, because it becomes so all-consuming: your audience stops caring about the other characters and plot-lines and you can't not have them get together because then you get a backlash from everyone feeling cheated because thats the only thing that kept them interested in the show. Thats what happened to Gossip Girl with the Chuck and Blair romance, and nobody wants to see New Girl go down that road. Nobody. It was painful.
   I don't think we're anywhere near the Nick/Jess romantic revelation, but I kind of wish we were. Everything just feels like filler right now. Or maybe all we need is for something to actually happen, something that has consequence. And for god's sake give Winston something to do other than be the black guy!

I Only Have Nightmares

   Its true, ever since May of last year, I can pretty honestly say that I don't have dreams, I only have nightmares. I had a dream about Ryan Gosling the other night, and that was pretty much the only exception in the past seven months.
   I was going to say that I didn't know the difference between nightmares and night terrors, but then I pulled up my bootstraps and consulted Wikipedia. (Sidenote: Lol, bootstraps). According to the great online encyclopaedia I may actually be having night terrors, because I awake in with a feeling of dread and am often real sweaty. I don't want to get into it in extreme depth because I tend to think that nobody really enjoys hearing about another person's dream unless they are in it. And none of you are in my dream. Unless you are my vampire best friend/ succubus who tried to eat my neck multiple times two nights ago while I spooned a very unfortunate guy with glasses. I will say this much: my nightmares often include gun violence and on many occasions I get shot in my dreams several times and don't die (once right in the face).
   Today I tried to put a light-hearted spin on this uncomfortable habit. I'm trying to reason with my subconscious and give it the benefit of the doubt; I don't want to assume its a big jerk, despite its actions. I'm feeling like maybe I have horribly frightening nightmares on a nightly basis in attempt to put my life in perspective. My subconscious might just be trying to make me feel better about myself. Gruesome, life-damaging nightmares might be its way of saying, "hey, at least there are no predatorial male figures with guns in your immediate waking life". Its right on that one. "At least hurricane Sandy didn't actually strike you with lightning resulting in immobility allowing hooligans to shoot you with rifles as you lost grocery money because your fridge got washed away is the flood". My dream life is so much worse than my real life. So thank you crippling night terrors, for without you I may never have come to appreciate my waking life.

Trapped in the Old Scene

   Here is some of my personal life context that you will be needing to navigate through this post:
- my parents have been travelling in Italy for the past three months and will continue to do so until Nov. 29 (my mum) and forever (my dad)
- my sweet sweet bf is having a crisis as he lives at home for a little bit, which I am handling in the way that I handle children: by not knowing what to do and thus trying to "give space" to him.
   Thats all you need to know. Fast forward to me, today, in my Victorian Literature class. My super hip young prof who I have a girl crush on is talking at the head of the class, a map of England is on the projector. My prof is talking about how the introduction of the railway in 1830 into Victorian England changed their entire perception of time. Zoom in on my face as I have an epiphany in class. Thats me, right over there in the third row, with the mangey hair and gloves on in class because room H1133 is cold as the grave.
   I am having an epiphany because at this moment in my life I am trapped in Victorian England. I cannot reach my loved ones instantaneously. My mother legit sends me postcards, which is some top-knotch Queen Victoria shit, but other than that my parents rarely get to an internet cafe. Telephones are to my parents what telegrams were to the Victorians: methods of communication reserved for only the most dire of circumstances. Is your brother on fire? Well you'd better wait three days for the letter to arrive in Manchester because this is not an important enough life event.
   My prof went on to describe texting and our 2012 response to time and communication (blah blah blah learning) and I was like, "excuse me teachuh, but I'm givin ma boyfrand space so I am a reg'lur Jane Austen". That is what I said in class. But seriously, it felt like I'd gone back in time. I'm in this weird floaty state where I can't reach the most important people in my young life immediately. I may as well be an orphan working in a blacking factory, right?

Elephants Painting Elephants

   A friend showed me a video of an elephant painting a picture of an elephant holding a flower in its trunk. Naturally, this was mind blowing information.
   Somehow knowing that a mammal other than a human can recognize what it sees, and creatively express makes me reconsider my life and "my problems". This elephant also went over certain lines of its picture, presumably because it was not happy with the look of it. The elephant had an artistic vision. Which is more than I can say for half the human race.
   I think that as an artist, I can relate more to this elephant than I can to almost all the political leaders and authority figures in the public sphere. Its like, who cares who won the US election, an elephant painted a self-portrait. Who cares if you're having relationship problems, an elephant has legitimate artistic talent. Someone give this elephant a scholarship to NSCAD.
   I don't know, call me soft, but this elephant is a serious game changer for me. The fact that I am connecting with this elephant in such a creative way is next level. Follow your dreams elephant, and I will stop worrying about the day-to-day.

The Almond's Super Saving Money Tips #5

   Who doesn't love a good bread plus stuff plus another bread, otherwise known as a sandwich? I know I sure do! And so do Polish people according to my Polish roommate, who is the top authority on all things eastern European. Sandwiches are good, is what we can conclude from our respective findings. However, did you know that sandwiches are a political weapon?
   I'm going to say that the average sandwich eater cares an average amount about social/ political issues. The second piece of bread in a sandwich is capitalism at its finest. Apparently in Poland open faced sandwiches roam freely, and I totally get it. I wish I could just walk into a restaurant and order an open faced sandwich at half the marked price.
   The money saving tip I suggest today is that from now on, to save on bread, you rock exclusively open faced sandwiches. I mean, we all did it when we were children right? Its not like an extra piece of bread is symbolic of adulthood. Its not like as soon as you bar mitzvah, they say "and now son, you shall eat sandwich contents between TWO slices of bread". Contrary to what you may have been told, open faced does not interfere with your faith.
   If you're at a restaurant you could try to haggle the price of a sandwich if its made custom open faced.  I would recommend doing that after a couple drinks so at least you've already spent some money, and they don't think you're homeless and kick you out of their establishment. I think that the rate of rejection would be pretty high, so this is where creativity becomes valuable (both figuratively and monetarily)! Lots of restaurants serve on fancy bread. I have worked in the fancy bread restaurant industry, I have even cut fancy bread, so I'd say this is pretty legit advice. Order a sammie and ask them to cut one slice of bread in half. So legit. Restaurants like to give you large pieces of fancy bread anyway, so you can take in the fanciness of their bread, and for real you could cut those slices in half and they would still be able to support a sandwich. This way you can argue that its not a variation to the dish itself.
   And always always open faced at home.

A Birthday Introspective

   I've been thinking some about my birthday, since it is over a  month away, and I feel it is appropriate. I have kind of a weird relationship with my birthday because its just a day, and I don't want to be the annoying girl who wears a crown all day, but also, if things start to go wrong on my birthday I'm like, "woah, not allowed. Today belongs to me".
   I can't even remember the best birthdays I've had, only the ones that have been slightly subpar. I mean, I ca remember great parties, but in terms of the real day I can only recall the mild disappointments. One time an elementary school my tyrant of a teacher made me clean some paint off the wall that I hadn't even spilled. What up with that? One time, my dad took me out for dinner, and I got spaghetti, but I became very full very quickly and was too embarrassed to get a doggy bag. One time I was on my period and that sucked.
   This year is an important year, and as half my friend's and potentially my bf will not be in the same city as me, it promises to be another failure-filled day. Free booze and compliments are all well and good, except when there is no one around to provide you with these things but your mother. Don't get me wrong, I love my mum but satisfying my constant need for alcohol and attention is a tall order for one person alone.

When the People I Love R Sad

   Despite being one of the most cynical and soul-crushing people I know, I am also one of the most sensitive people I know. This can be problematic.
   When the people I love are very sad, it makes me very sad. Like this:

  

Meatheads

   I know so many meatheads. I don't know why, do I attract the friendship/ acquaintance of meatheads?  
   I was at this party on Halloweekend and this guy I knew from rez last year came up to me out of nowhere and demanded fist bumps and chest/shoulder bumps. He is a football player, and I was wearing a crown of poinsettias, we were not equally matched for any kind of bumping. Classic meathead move.
   I would propose that there are different varieties of meatheads, and that clubs and grungy bars are the delis for finding such meatheads.
   There are the meatheads who are meatball heads. These guys are not physically challenging, and regardless of their level of intellect these guys are always trying to engage in knowledgeable conversations, regardless of the social cues they receive from people around them. Such meatheads are often philosophy majors, or former-engineering students turned full-time baristas.
   Then you've got the meatheads who resemble thin slices of sandwich meats. Its hard to tell whats going on with these guys, and you are constantly questioning who they know and how you know them and whether they are high or not. Most of the time these meatheads stand around smiling, not adding anything to conversation. They never seem to remember who you are either, and as a result you must always re-introduce yourself to them. These guys are usually more puzzling and mildly annoying rather than flat out hateful.
   Moving on through the meet aisle of life, we are next brought to the ham hock meat-head. I picture these gentlemen as simply a ham hock with googley eyes sitting atop a pair of neckless shoulder. This particularly meathead is defined by a one-dimensional personality, and undeniable stupidity. While such meatheads may be loved by their mothers and a group of bros, possess moderately good intentions and be well-versed on the subject of exercise, it is difficult to be in the company of such a meathead without stabbing your eyes out.
   I have saved the last category for the likes of my fist/chest bumping acquaintance; those who's brains are literally made of ground beef. These meatheads look normal upon first encountering them- they know how to behave around new people, they seem like functioning members of society. Beware: these meatheads are often the most offensive and toxic of all. These meatheads think they are above the common meathead, since they do not identify with the personality type at all. These are the kinds of guys who either get a lot of girls/ guys or think that they would but they just "have really high standards". Another classic ground beef brain move is to think (if they're straight) that all gay men are attracted to them (the same is true in the reverse situation). These meatheads are made even worse by the fact that they are wildly ignorant, and often use their sense of humour as a safety net on which to defend insensitive remarks. Example:
Meathead: nine in ten people enjoy gang rape.
Rape victim: thats not ok.
Meathead: It was a joke, god, who pissed in her pot?

   Thus concludes my in depth examination of meatheads. For further instruction on the identification and culture the meathead, consult your sassy aunt or family physician.

Here I Sit, Loading

   I was going to write about something else, but then real life hit me in the face like a bag of gold bars-- as they say. I was just on the internet, like I often am, minding my own business in a communal area of the university when all of a sudden some heathen decides they want to watch a video and put a stop to the internet activities of everyone else on the floor. One minute I was happily refreshing the page, and six minutes later I was still. refreshing. the. page.
   People of the world, I beg of you, respect the fragility of the wifi ecosystem in this university building. It is fragile and complex. The actions of one have impact on many. I have one hour between class and work, with nothing to read except term-old syllabi and my own bleak thoughts. Don't make me have to delve into either of those as a result of your selfish video desires. Its rough I know, that you can't stream Glee in the middle of the Hall building. Maybe next time you'll just have to learn how to use the internet and download that sheesh. Alternatively you could not watch Glee, and probably be a better human being for it. You can thank me later.
   The wifi at the downtown campus is not so hot anyways, so the fact that anyone is under the impression that they can watch videos is beyond me. How can you sleep at night knowing that because of your selfish needs, everyone else was forced to open programs that don't require internet like... I don't even know... TextEdit? Stickies?
   And now there is a man sitting beside me who smells absolutely foul. The kind where breathing through your lips doesn't help.

Awkward Sweat

   Sometimes when I go to the gym I wear my old cheerleading shorts. They are those standard Gildan practice shorts that lots of people have, mine are navy blue if you must know (blue, green and white *clap clap*; fight ravens fight). I wear them sometimes if I don't want to have mad panty lines, whatever, its not a big deal, get over it.

   Yesterday during my crazy fitness regime I observed a young man who had a large and noticeable sweat stain around his... how do I put this gently... around his derriere region. At first, I was inclined to laugh ruthlessly at this young man (in my head of course, as I am very conscious of what other people think of me). But then I was struck with the awful comprehension of the power of the butt sweat gods. 

   I realized that I was not wearing my bicycle shorts, which are the kryptonite of hiney moisture stainage. I was fair game in my cotton shorts. I was struck with sudden insecurity. Its not that I was sweating so profusely, but that I was sitting on the exercise bike, and for some reason this made my fear seem a million times more possible. I was recalled to an awful day last summer when I biked downtown to hand out resumes only to realize I had been struck down by the butt sweat gods (needless to say, none of those places called me). 

   Even more awkward than realizing you have butt sweat, is attempting to casually check yourself for butt sweat. I went to clean off my machine, trying with no luck to angle my butt away from everyone else in the gym, but towards the mirror so I could inspect the situation. I tried to look fatigued, and drink from my water bottle near a glass door, with hopes of discreetly checking out the damage in the reflection-- my neck does not have that range of motion I discovered. 

   Finally I sucked it up and walked through the entire gym to discover in a widely mirrored area, that the butt sweat gods had spared me. But really, had they spared me? They got me just as good, and I am sure I managed to make quite a spectacle of myself. People probably thought I was just going out of my way to check myself out, and I think thats more embarrassing than having actual workout perspiration on your caboose. Butt sweat gods: 1 Me: 0.

Getting a Starbucks

   I don't even like coffee. I can force it down during the McDonalds free coffee week, but I feel like that stuff is closer to caffeinated puddle water than coffee. Whether you enjoy coffee real stylez or not though, everyone likes Starbucks. I have always liked Starbucks but this year I have noticed a frightening spike in my Starbucks consumption.
   Again, I've been a part of the Starbucks nation for a very long time. And as I am a self-proclaimed "part of the problem" on almost all fronts, I am kind of indifferent about fuelling the evil baby-killing Starbucks machine. Previously to this fall season I was but a lowly civil servant in the nation- a humble shoe shiner, or librarian probably- recently though I have progressed to the equivalent of a trendy restaurant manager, or owner of a small chain of delis in the Starbucks nation. I don't quite know how I feel about that, but I know my wallet doesn't like it.
   Its not even that I could alternatively just make coffee at home, or even make a latte at home, despite the fact that we have a cappucino-maker in my apartment. Its not about getting a caffeine/ latte fix; its about getting a Starbucks fix. You make, brew or drink a coffee. You get a Starbucks. Even the language of Starbucks is exclusively its own thing. The name "Starbucks" is not just a synonym for coffee, but all other Starbucks products, the experience you have at the franchise and possibly even the employees themselves (as one of my university professors suggested). For me its no longer about drinking beverages as it was when I was a humble shoe shiner in the ranks of the Starbucks nation; its "getting a Starbucks". The "getting" is really what I'm getting at (see what I did there?). The Starbucks is a tangible thing to be with and without. I just finished my last sip of chai latte as I wrote that, and naturally, I am now as empty as the cup sitting beside me. Thank god its Christmas now (according to Starbucks) and I can justify getting Starbucks more frequently until I resort to leaving my credit card at home when I pass through campus.

Being a "Lone Lorn Creetur"

   Lets bring some literature, some Dorothy Parker up into this haus. I read Parker's famous short story Big Blonde recently, and I felt a little bit like I was the main character in the story- except without the deep alcoholism and 1920's wining and dining. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the narrative (I sound like such a pretentious little brat, but really, I was unfamiliar with it up until last Monday) it deals with this woman who struggles with a personal identity which depends very much on her social identity, and the difficulty in maintaining her identity as a "good sport" as she gets older.
   The gist of it is that nobody is always a "good sport". It is impossible to happy all the time, and never appear even a little bit down around other people, and to demand such a thing of someone is a very tall order and you will become a raging alcoholic is you try to keep that up. Its weird because the very morning before I read the story, I was struggling with walking the line between unhappy and utterly unloveable. Obviously blah blah blah the people who matter will love you no matter what mood you're in, but loving and liking are entirely different.
   Of course people are allowed to be in bad moods, have bad days or weeks or months. But come on people, we all know how hard it is to hang out with that friend who is down on everything. Nobody wants to be a Mrs. Gummidge (see David Copperfield [look at me with my literary references]). Sometimes you're just blue though, and I often share the Big Blonde struggle of trying to suppress/ divert that in order to be a good sport.
   The more I think about it the more I conclude that it depends on context. If its your best friend's wedding and you're feeling the dark cloud, suck it up butter cup. If your spouse just went off to fight the Nazis during WW2, you're allowed to stay in that night. If you lost the necklace your grandmother gave you on the eve of your death, you're allowed to stay in. If they were all out of chicken wings on 99 cent wing night, suck it up butter cup. These are bad examples. Just don't turn to drink to impress a guy named Art ok?