i’m a ::loud: dick

I have lost my god damn mind.

After the last three weeks, my brain is mush. I have been working 40 hour weeks (getting salaried for 20), going to class, writing papers AND trying to look presentable to the general public.

It’s a hard life.

So here I am. On the fourth floor of the glorious  Library. It’s a quiet floor, the minnions that work here claim. I am in a study booth across from ‘Y4.ED – Y4.EP’ – which is part of the Goverment Information section.

Riveting.

And yes, I am aware this is a quiet floor. But after three cups of strong coffee, and advertisments strewn about for the ‘SPRING FLING HOT PARTY’ — I’m feeling a bit antsy.

And hungry.

So I am eating pretzels.

Delicious Snyder’s of Hanover Pretzel Rods [plugplugsendmemoney].

After I delved into these delicious carb sticks, I realized that everyone on the ‘quiet floor’ was annoyed by my mastication [look it up, people].

So I am chewing louder. Fuck you. It’s finals week.

I’m a dick.

thigh high fire!

Last night, I tucked myself into my friend Clair’s bed. I am still condo-sitting for her in the fancy part of town; I like to pretend I am laying on a cushion full of money, because that is what her bed feels like.

I drifted off to sleep at 11:40 – with the sweet sounds of Stephen Colbert dancing in my eardrum. It felt like only a moment later that I awoke to the most awful noise I had ever heard. It pierced my brain and I woke up crying because the noise jolted me.

I thought to myself “Oh my god, there is an alarm of some kind going off! it will surely wake Clair’s neighbors. What time is it!?“

3:34 a.m.

[Sidenote: i obsessively check clocks, which is why I know what time I start to drift to bed and when I wake up. I'm OCD. So sue me.]

What the fuck was going off at 3:34 a.m.?! After about three minutes of shear terror, I looked out in the hallway. The sound was the fancy-expensive-condo fire alarm. As this began to process, a girl wearing thigh high stockings and a robe ran past the door.

“There is smoke down the other end of the hall!”

I ran back into the apartment and grabbed my hoodie and shoes. I looked back just in time to see Clair’s cat, Gladys, staring back at me. She looked concerned. I couldn’t leave her. We have a bond, Gladys and I.

I grabbed the wiggly cat and carried her with me down the stairs.

We sat outside for nearly 45 minutes. With Gladys’ fur flying and her tiny paws grasping for anything but me.

Later we were allowed back inside. They say it may have been a small fire set by some people who had come back from St. Patty’s celebrations. I couldn’t fall back asleep until 5:32 a.m.

As I drifted off, I realized that it was probably the bitch in the thigh high stockings.

I’ll find her later.

shitty curry and a paper from hell

This weekend was a rough one, kiddies.

See- today marks the beginning of finals week.

Which, as an Undergraduate, was a week where I was often hungover – but functional enough to drag myself to evening finals wearing sunglasses and carrying a bucket.

The morning of my exams, I would wake up late – confused and smelling of tequila. I would get up and shower (I lived in a sorority, so there was lots of hot, steamy group showers where we would wash each other’s hair and explore). Then I would put on sweatpants. Vomit once. And then study for the two hours prior to the test whilest eating Cheez-Its.

And sometimes, I would have a paper to write during this week. But it was always a 6 page minimum, and I could B-S most of it. During my junior year, I learned that you could change the size of your —-> . <—- which makes your paper grow by at least a paragraph. Check.

But, now, I’m in the term from hell. The graduate school term from hell. The term that includes such riveting lectures as “Financial Aid Development and Awarding Process” and “Holding Their Hand: Transfer Student Success” – or the ever-popular “Budget Planning for the Oregon University System.”

Oh – did I mention that this term has included nearly 4,000 pages of research text in TEN weeks for only ONE of the courses?

Oh – I didn’t?

Well … it did.

So now I have two papers due this week. Both around 13 pages. Both sucking the soul out of me. I worked on them all weekend and still feel totally stuck.

Granted – I got completely shitfaced on Saturday night, sang karaoke and threw up once — but I was at the library first thing Sunday morning (not hungover. which is probably a problem in and of itself)!

I’m on my lunch break. Eating shitty curry from a cart in downtown. I think I am contracting Hepatitis as you read this.

And I really should be working on my paper relating to transparency in budget decision making in higher education.

But I’m not.

I wish I were hung over, eating Cheez-Its and watching Maury in my sorority house.

BOO GROWN UP

’stache attack!

How are women with mustaches/lady beards so often unaware of their condition?

Male, female, unsure, transitioning, whatever – you’re aware of hair on your face.

Today, I saw a woman on the bus who had five black hairs on either side of her lip. Just five.

She was obviously not committed.

This upset me.

You should either proud and unapologetic:

Or you seem totally unaware of the situation, and you make everyone around you uncomfortable:

.. wait, what? That’s a gentleman? Whoops.

Okay – well you guys get the idea.

I am begging the ladies (and every awkward man) of the world to please just address the facial hair issue and either OWN IT or WAX IT.

If you’re going to own it – shit, wear pigtails. Stroke your mustache when people ask you questions. Comb it through in the mornings to prevent wayward strands.

But don’t ignore it. For the sake of humanity. Don’t ignore it.

it feels good to do good

If ‘Unsolved Mysteries’, ‘America’s Most Wanted’ and ‘Nancy Grace’ have taught me anything, it is that we should take it upon ourselves as upstanding citizens to constantly check websites that feature missing persons, fugitives, unsolved crime reports and celebrity news.

Today, on my daily trip to Interpol’s Most Wanted (Interpol, of course, being the world’s largest police organization, with 187 partner countries) – I came across a young gentleman named Jerry EE.

He is a gentleman wanted out of Singapore for ‘thefts.’ And, for some reason, the people at Interpol decided to use his MySpace pic for his Interpol Profile.

This picture makes him look like a kid I met in the dorms freshman year who used to pretend to be a Chinese tourist to get laughs at frat parties. In fact … that looks a lot like him.

Too much like him, I say.

That – that’s him!

I’ve found him – people! I know where Jerry EE is! I’m soooo e-mailing Interpol right now!

Hahaha! I win! I did it! I’ve saved the world from ‘thefts‘!

So, I encourage all of you to do your part – and check these websites for people who look like people you might have seen.

It feels good to do good.

too bright and wet!

Alright, so I’ve been blog-slacking again – lay off me!

Lately, I’ve been feeling antsy, and like I need to get out of good ol’ Oregon. I’ve lived here my entire life, and though I love it and I know I want to settle down here, I know I want to live in a bigger city someday soon. I need metropolitan. I need a transit system that doesn’t fucking cripple when it snows.

I’ve been thinking and obsessing about it so much that I’m starting to become angry about everything I used to love about Oregon.

For instance, on Monday, I walked out of my apartment and onto the street. And I realized that I was snarling at the amount of green grass everywhere. ‘It’s so fucking bright!’ I yelled right as I stepped into a puddle – which subsequently splashed onto my trousers. I tried to ignore it.

Later that day, I was in my office, looking out the window and it was sprinkling outside – ‘god damn rain’ I muttered. I looked down at my sad, soaked trousers.

I have this master plan of moving to the NE when I graduate. I realize that it is green there. And that it rains. But I also like to think that the excitement of moving somewhere new will distract me.

But I have a little over a year before my Graduate program is over – and I better figure out how to keep from snapping and holding up a ‘Made in Oregon‘ store.