Today I was sitting across from a man on the bus who was eating one. He, like most people, first tore the package and proceeded to eat it as though it was a candybar. By the time he was finished he was tongue deep in the wrapper searching for crumbs.
In high school my friend's brother and his friends used to call me Crumbs due to the fact I always had a crumb collection on my boobs. This contributed to my learning to eat crumbly things in a non-crumbly way. As a result I learned to eat crunchy granola bars the same way I would open a bag of chips -- by opening one of the ends instead of tearing it. Then I break them in pieces while they're still in the package and eat the pieces as finger food. When I'm done I empty the crumbs into my mouth the same way I do Cheetos.
A couple minutes later he took out a second bar and repeated the heinous process of gobbling it down. I thought about enlightening him as to my less-embarrassing, neater way, but didn't. I figured drawing more attention to how disgusting he was would be mean, especially considering he was a stranger.
This is a common issue for me. I don't mean to sound like an asshole, but I spend a lot of time thinking about really stupid stuff, like eating granola bars, because I am certain there is usually a better way to do everything. And I'm right about that most of the time.
I spent yesterday morning with a three year old. I didn’t know what I would be doing as usually I
watch her in the evening and feed her dinner, get her ready for bed, read
bedtime stories – all that stuff. I’m better at that. I don’t really know what
to do with kids during the day. Even for a few hours, I have no idea what to do
with them in a city. I mean, museums, sure, but without a car, that goes from
ideal to terrible in three seconds flat. Especially when the three year old doesn’t
want to walk anywhere, even the bus stop.
We didn’t go
to a museum because after a block she was complaining about her legs hurting.
Her dad said the museum was only a thirty minute walk, so I figured they’d
walked it with her before. And he didn’t give me a stroller or anything, so I
thought she could manage. But between the unnamed chip on my shoulder and her
whining, we only made it to the park, and that was after taking a break to get
her a drink – her dad did give us money for lunch.
She would
usually have gone to school today, but she had diarrhea so she wasn’t allowed
to come today, and her dad was working from home so I was called to entertain
her.
We were
almost to the park when a woman walking her dog didn’t pick up its shit,
instead she placed a piece of newspaper over it. This bothered me, but I was
preoccupied with a moody three year old. We continued walking.
Another
woman who had been speaking to a man nearby shouted, “Hey, you’re gonna pick
that up aren’t you?” We were on a major street with high foot traffic, and that
was a pretty inconsiderate thing to do, but I understand forgetting the
poo-bags, but placing newspaper over it seemed worse than leaving it uncovered.
“There’s a kid there, she could step in it!” This was true, too, but I was
doing everything I could to avoid this confrontation and get on my way.
The dog’s
owner spun around and came within an inch of the older woman to shout, “Get out
of my fucking face!” The irony escaped her, I suppose, seeing as the woman had
not been anywhere near her face, nor had she been particularly rude.
The owner
sort of wiped it up and it became apparent why she hadn’t in the first place.
The fecal matter wasn’t exactly solid. But if she knew this, and she had
newspaper, why not place the paper under her dog’s ass and pick it up after? It
seemed obvious, but I couldn’t say this because being in the company of someone
else’s child made saying anything seem irresponsible.
“If you
don’t pick it up, I’m going to call the cops!” the woman shouted.
“Do it, I
don’t care.” The woman did. “Fuck you, cop caller!” The dog owner continued as
she ran away.
When I walked into the unoccupied stall I found the remnants of a turd on the seat. If it had been Number 1, I wouldn't have had a problem taking some toilet paper and wiping the seat. But Number 2 isn't something I'm so comfortable with.
I began to wait, but could feel the tension in the bathroom, so I decided to give the other woman her privacy and take a lap around the floor.
I work in what is referred to as a "startup incubator." We're located on one floor together in what would otherwise be a relatively swanky office building. People who don't work on my floor wear suits to work, the people on my floor frequently look as though they came to work in last night's clothes. We don't interact much with the other companies, but we're familiar enough that I can look at someone and tell you which overflowing office (singular) they work in with a dozen other people.
Space is tight, to say the least. This doesn't matter for the most part, except where the bathrooms are concerned. There is a single bathroom for close to fifty women to share. Two stalls. That's all we've got to work with and when that's narrowed to one stall due to one unpleasant person's error, frequent pee-ers are screwed.
I drink a least two liters of water in the time I spend at work -- it's my solution for not being able to afford my Red Bull addiction. It's hard to be anything but alert when you have to pee all the time.
By the time I was finishing my lap around the floor The Hot Chick from down the hall beat me to the bathroom by about ten feet. Determined to not repeat the previous routine, I decided to wait patiently in the bathroom.
After about five minutes of waiting, I realized it was going to be longer, and again I opted to give her privacy and take a lap. Upon my return, she was still there, so I took another lap. This went on for about twenty minutes and I went from checking after each lap to about every third. After the third lap or so people working from couches in the halls and common areas began to take notice and shoot me quizzical looks.
At this point I probably would have been better off leaving my building and making my way to one of the dozen coffee shops scattered around my building, BUT I didn't know The Hot Chick was going to take a deuce for twenty minutes. I mean, ten minutes -- sure, but twenty seems excessive for a work environment.
The Hot Chick finally came out of the stall, just as I came in to check once more. We avoided eye contact and I was finally able to (ahem) relieve myself. I finished in the time it took for her to wash her hands. (I'm a fast pee-er, guys! Hire me!) She didn't leave though, she stayed and looked at herself in the mirror while I washed my hands. We left at the same time and exchanged looks that said I know that you know that I know that you just took a massive shit.
My mom is not good at hair, and was terrible at doing others' hair, specifically mine. She would either put my hair in hot rollers and then brush the curl out until it was a massive, wavy ball of static, or she would brush it while I cried. I had very fine, tangly hair and brushing it was never an enjoyable experience -- this was probably why I became interested in hair in the first place, to avoid tears.
These are fucking terrible. All of them. Anytime.
My mom did know how to use hair-pins and bobby-pins though. I'll give her that. But I figured everything else out on my own. This isn't to say that my mom isn't feminine and all that, she is. She could do her hair just fine (though in limited variety), she just couldn't do others'. My sisters weren't much use either. They can both work it out when they want to, but I am better. They earned their varsity letters, I got my cosmetology license.
I understand that most people, did not spend their Saturday mornings as a child sitting on their beds with two mirrors and several combs teaching themselves how to French braid. I get that. However, I also am saddened by women everywhere who have never taken the time to learn how to do their hair in any way. It's as though they have never taken a single Saturday morning in their lives to figure out what to do with everything growing out of their heads. So they put it in claw. Then to make up for their complete ineptitude they spend time picking out "cute" hair clips. These clips continue to be popular because people continue to think hair is hard to do.
This isn't 1998, pulling your hair back with glittery butterfly clips isn't going to cut it if you want anyone, anywhere to respect you as an adult. You look like a child whose parents have unfortunately also not figured it out. It takes every fiber of my being to not pluck out hair clips when I see them on adult women. I just figure whatever they've go going on is definitely not being helped by that wretched clip. I do do this sometimes to friends and acquaintances, the recipients aren't ever welcoming, but it makes me feel like I've made the world a slightly more aesthetically pleasing place.
PROTIPS:
Ponytails should not require combing, nor should one have a multitude of clips to "smooth out the bumps" all over their head. Flip your head over, pull your hair back. Voila. It might not be perfect at first, but a ponytail should never take more than thirty seconds to do, if that. (Don't feed me any of that bullshit about having a different hair type, either.)
Braids are simple, unless you have absolutely no dexterity in your fingers. Three sections. Right over center. Left over (the new) center. Until it's done. BOOM.
Buns, of all varieties, no matter the hair type, are simple if you know the difference between hair-pins and bobby-pins. Just twist your hair around and pin it until it doesn't move, and you like it. If you do this enough, you'll figure what you're naturally inclined to do, and it will get easier. I promise.
This is a hair-pin - use this to hold hair to other hair.
This is a bobby-pin - use this to hold hair to your head.
There is a moment that any fan can
recall when they fell in love with a band.
While parts of my record collection I have been given for free – and I
mean in a physical way (my iTunes account is made up completely of music that
I’ve personally downloaded from CDs and vinyl). But each record that I’ve
bought, and some that I’ve been given have a very specific purpose. They remind
me of someone, or some particular life event, or resonate with a part of me
that I can’t quite explain, but somehow that album can make whatever I’m
feeling make sense.
I am not the only person who feels
this way, and I think most of my friends would agree – I can say that because
most of my friends and I are friends because of a common love for a certain
band. It’s kind of a litmus test when I meet people, not because I’m trying to
be a dick, but because an interest in music and a love for it is often a
quality people that are curious and observant and well, interesting, have.
They get it.
I don’t remember the first time I
heard Pulp, but I do remember when I realized that those songs that I had been dancing to were by them. Spinning to
the chorus of “Do You Remember The First
Time” – there aren’t words for that.
That probably seems silly to a lot of you, and that’s okay.
Today tickets to see Pulp at The
Warfield here in San Francisco went on sale at 10 am. I set three alarms, just
in case I slept through the first two (I didn’t) so that I would be up and have
my information plugged in as their website allows. This was followed by an
invitation to the “waiting room” – a virtual line of some kind before tickets
went on sale. I did this on two computers – not because I had an interest in
buying 293487 tickets, but because I wanted to make sure I had a decent chance
of getting tickets at all, and I called their ticket provider AXS, and stayed
on hold for a solid 20 minutes before I was told that they had sold out in five
minutes.
Five. Minutes.
I looked around the internet
yesterday to see if any tickets were for sale elsewhere, maybe leftover from a
presale and there were. They were. I posted on The Warfield’s Facebook page
asking when the presale had occurred. They said there wasn’t one, unless there
had been one on Pulp’s page without their knowledge. I couldn’t find anything
that would lead me to believe there was one of any kind.
I digress. The scalping. The
website allowed for you to buy eight tickets at a time. I know it’s up to the venue, but to allow the
sale of such a high quantity plays right into the scalpers grubby little hands.
I have been to a lot of concerts, with and without other people, and I’ve never
known of anyone to need that many, let alone be able to afford it off that bat,
and let their friends pay them back later. Maybe I just have poor friends.
One would think that if you own a
venue, you do it because you love music, because you’re a fan. And The Warfield isn’t an arena, it is a dedicated
music venue, with a capacity of about 2000. If you’re really a fan of music,
and enjoy sharing that experience with others than why would you allow policies
that fuck over the fans? With big names, you won’t lose money by restricting
the quantity – people will still buy their tickets, though probably not quite
as fast.
Which brings me to scalpers.
Whether you’re charging ten or a hundred dollars more, you’re still making it
that much more difficult for fans, presumably poor bastards like me who spend
all our money on rent and going to shows, from seeing a band we love. You can’t
love music, or really anything and willfully fuck over other people.
My sister April and I are very similar in a lot of ways and quite opposite in others (politics, for example). Last night she came over and while we were downloading CD's to my computer to put on her ipod because her computer's disc drive is broken, we were Facebook stalking people(that we totally don't make fun of). YOU KNOW YOU DO IT TOO.
We are totally going to hell.
Anyway, upon seeing one picture:
(Someone thought that they were being creative. They thought wrong.)
Me: Do you see that?
April: The window treatment?
Me: Yes.
April: It's terrible.
Me: That's what they did at some church activity about living within your means.
April: Yeah, and the other roommates are too busy trying to be Christlike to tell them how bad it is.
We have given up on trying to be Christlike, I mean my sister is a Republican. And Christ was totally a Socialist (Hello bread and fish parable!). I'm a Libertarian, so I'm like halfassing the whole Christlike thing.
I apparently made one of my youth leaders cry after commenting on her dress. Another leader told me about it later. I would feel bad, but she totally dresses better now. Though, I have since learned to be more tactful. I think. I'm probably in denial about that.
I am sitting in the airport in Austin, Texas. I am at the same gate that I was at seven hours ago. The same gate that my 6:55 am flight left from. The same flight that I missed due to the longest security line I have ever seen. Guys, I'm from Washington, DC, the capital of security. I mean, really, this line was out the door, down a block or so and then back again. Over an hour in a security line, and now I'm stranded in this airport, at this gate, where there is a woman wearing pajamas waiting for a standby flight for herself and her 16 month old son. The pajamas. Ohdeargod, sure this isn't 1964, I don't expect people to dress up, but pajamas in public are unacceptable.
Really, I don't care that much, but am projecting my frustration towards her. And the Delta worker's makeup. One lady had on an awful shade of reddish-brown eyeshadow on, but only had it on half of the eyelid and did not blend it with anything. Another lady lined her lips in a similar shade, but filled it in with a shimmery pink. Ugh. Unless you're Middle Eastern, you probably don't have the complexion to wear those shades appropriately.
I wish it was 1964 and all the stewardesses were still stewardesses and not flight attendants and were really good looking and wore those awesome uniforms designed by someone in the fashion industry and not someone who took sewing in Home Economics in the seventh grade. In my perfect world they would also be wearing fabulous shoes, and not flats with white socks.
I need a hug.
I couldn't sleep last night because I was worried about over sleeping. Then I had this awful dream about going to South by Southwest (SXSW), and in the dream I kept having horrible things happen to me that would have probably prevented me from going to SXSW, but in my dream I was intrepid and invincible and shameless - there was definitely a make-out break in my dream, you know, between car accidents and catastrophes. Apparently making-out is something that I value, a lot. (Hi, Dad. If you are reading this, please know that I only kiss Aryan looking, return missionaries who are officers in the Armed Forces.)
Anyway, I woke up well before my scheduled wake-up call, and tried to sleep some more, but it didn't work. Then the call came and then my phone's alarm went off. I was out the door by about 5:10 am. I walked to the bus stop where the Airport Flyer was supposed to pick me up, but it was late. I was trying to save money. I mean, the bus was only a dollar, a taxi would have been about thirty plus a tip. I should have made plans for the earlier bus, but I honestly thought an hour would be fine. I was sorely mistaken, and now, because I didn't pay full price for my ticket I am not a top priority.
I have talked to everyone this morning - my mom, dad, boy, other boy, girl, etc. And of course there is nothing that any of them can do except offer some level of empathy. My parents are worried, boy 1 was empathetic and in a different airport, boy 2 was in same airport but his flight was leaving on time, and girl has offered to pick me up in Richmond whenever I get back. It's too bad my brother is a pilot for American and not Delta, I don't know if he could do anything for my cause, but it would at least be a start. Here, I have nothing.
So, I have read and slept and paid eight dollars for internet access so that I didn't completely lose it. And now there is some dude who keeps looking at me. I want him to stop it.
I should probably start my SXSW write-ups or do some homework, but I am a zombie and in no condition to do anything productive.
When Jessica and I moved into our apartment in May there was a very quiet dude who lived above us with his two tiny dogs. The dogs were also very quiet. And because of all this quiet I was able to sleep during typical sleeping hours.
Then he moved out and a bunch of Asian chicks moved in. They are decidedly not the brightest crayons in the box. I have to complain to them about something weekly. It started with them "building a bookshelf" at midnight. Really. Apparently they missed the memo from suburbia: Be quiet between 9 am and 9 pm. Common courtesy. Learn it. Geez.
Anyway, they were also the cause of the leak in our bathroom. They didn't have a shower curtain going all the way around the inside of their tub. Odd, considering that Jessica bought three from the dollar store (or somewhere) to fit all the way around our tub as soon as we moved in. I had to ask to see their bathroom and asked if they would mind putting a curtain up on all sides of their tub. They obliged and the leak stopped. Huzzah!
But they're still really loud. And they're always having dudes over. Attractive dudes. Attractive, dumb dudes. Anthea and I have decided that all the noise we hear all the time and the explanation for their furniture always being in a different place (because I get to peek in every time they open the door when I ask them to stop doing whatever it was that they were doing) is that they are porn stars filming orgies in their living and dining rooms. Fetish porn. Fetish-tiny-asian-girls-with-cut-white-dudes porn.
Last night I stayed up fairly late. And every time Anthea of myself heard something loud and indistinguishable we would blame it on their "shoot." Well we finally wanted to go to bed, around one (which is late for a Wednesday night) and they were still being really loud. One would have thought that it would have stopped by that point, but I was so wrong. So I went up and knocked. The door opened a little bit, but not enough to see anything. Then someone closed it all the way and I heard scattering of people and whispers, including this gem, "Hide. It's the cops." To which I responded that it was just the girl from downstairs. Eventually some dude who does not live there answered the door and asked what the problem was. I explained that they were being really loud, that I had work in the morning, etc. to which he was apologetic. And they were quieter...for like fifteen minutes. Then the boys - three of them - moved to the stoop in front of my building, but more importantly outside my bedroom window. After my doorbell had been rung TWICE I went out and asked them to be quiet, again. On a fucking Wednesday night. They explained that it was their friend's 21st birthday and that they didn't ring our doorbell. I had to point out that he was LEANING against all of the doorbells! And when I asked why they didn't take their friend out to a bar, you know, as is customary on 21st birthdays (Hey! Everyone! I expect to be drinking for free in Richmond and/or DC for my 21st, and cupcakes should be involved, in return I will bake for all of your birthdays. Wait, I already do that, because I am awesome.). The more attractive of the three told me it was too late to go to a bar because they were closing, he apparently didn't understand that they should have taken her out hours before. What the hell?
So, I'm pretty sure they hate me. And telling myself that they're "filming" is starting to make me feel better. I just really hope I never meet a dude that's really into Asian chicks w/Bros porn.
Yesterday I spoke with both my sister and my sister-in-law about going to Kings Dominion today with the majority of my family. Each agreed that meeting when it opened (10:30 am) would be fine. So this morning when I left at a quarter after ten after waking up late and showering, I arrived to find that I was the only one there. April was still at her house in the West End and everyone else was about an hour away. I suppose I should have called someone to verify the time, but I already thought I was running late. And it wasn't so bad, I hadn't eaten anything yet and waited in Burger King. Everyone except April showed up around eleven thirty, because no one called her to let them know that they were getting close. My brothers cannot be counted on to plan thing efficiently, that's okay though, that's why they have sisters - three of them.
We had an enjoyable time. Ella, my niece is five and loves roller coasters, and my sister-in-law, Laiene (Lie-in-Ay - who is Basque) was at an amusement park for the first time ever. I'm not really sure how that is possible, she is thrity-one. I don't think I know anyone over the age of five, that has never been to one, but then I grew up a reasonable distance from three and she you know, grew up a reasonable distance from teh beach and the mountains. It was fun seeing her reaction in comparison with my nieces after we went on the Ricochet, the first ride of the day. Laiene was in shock and Ella couldn't wait for the next one.
I had to leave early to go to work. Lame.
After work, I parked and turned my car engine off, but leaving the radio on. But the radio didn't stay on. So I tried turning the car on. And it didn't turn on. I haven't checked the oil in at least three thousand miles and my car may need some more. Awesome. My phone is thankfully working again, but of course my car isn't. Seriously, every week! What is with the universe?
Instead of getting upset about it I watched some chick attempt to parallel park in front of me for a few minutes before I explained that she was doing it wrong. I don't know why people in Richmond don't know how to parallel park, it is not that difficult. I have spent a lot of free time at work observing the people setting out for happy hour attempt to park their SUVs on Main Street, it makes the time pass by faster, and is, you know, amusing. The chick explained that she'd never really needed to parallel park before and had just gotten her car. But the spot in front of me was huge andher car was tiny, and well, whatever, hopefully she gets it now.
Aside: The past four weeks have been absolute shit. I think I'm officially entering that stage of college where I stop shaving in an effort to consciously repel the opposite sex. Never in my life did I think this would happen. I have loved boys since I realized that there was an opposite sex, but lately they just keep pissing me off. Tonight I was discussing the way people communicate with a Myers/Briggs expert/consultant that comes into work. She didn't explain anything new to me, we mostly just bitched about how irritating it is when people don't seem to try to meet you in the middle when it comes to communication. Ugh, I don't want to deal with it anymore. There, I'm a stereotypical nineteen year old girl, and I hate boys.
Before I meet someone, I assume that they are going to suck at life. This makes it much easier when they do, because I didn't get my hopes up. I like to avoid getting my hopes up about anyone and have yet to meet anyone where it would have been justified. BUT! I do always give them the benefit of a doubt. I always remember that first impression, but usually give people a second chance that involves a lengthy conversation where we can relay a couple of stories bwtween the two of us. It can't be a group, it must be one on one because I don't think people get an idea of who I really am in group situtaions. It's only after this that I feel I can make an accurate judgment of someone.
At this stage people are thrown into various categories, usually the acquaintance category. I do however do my best to be a friend to these people. Whether they define our relationship as a friendship is up to them. If someone makes it to the friend range, I assume that they are going to be around for awhile. Friends are worth fighting for, after all.
My friends have seen me cry, laugh, talked with me about poop, know about my family - where they live, what they do, how I communicate with them - and most importantly have been allowed to hear me read something from my journals. Blogs don't count, these are superficial, and very rarely mean much. Though I am capable of being very cathartic in which case everything will be written in code.
My best friend and I have been best friends since we were 4/5. Since then I've accumulated other friends, and lost others, but each one has endured the crazy that is Amanda Jewell Pittman, and each one is aware of how much I care about them. And for those that are no longer a part of my life, they may as well have died. I don't mean that in a bitter way, I mean that when we "broke up" if you will, I mourned the death of that relationship.
So, that being said, I've started to realize how disposable people are to others. I don't understand this at all. Once someone has become a part of my life, that's it. I'll do everything for that person, and it may be incessant and obnoxious, but it's only because I care. The idea of writing someone out of my life forever is almost incomprehensible. Even if I never talk to them again, I still hope for the best on their behalf. I am incapable of not caring. And for people to tell me that if someone pisses them off enough they'll never talk to them again is bizarre. It seems to me that if you're capable of doing that then it must not have meant much in the first place. And for these people, I am sorry, because if someone if you're friend, I would assume that you love them, and that is certainly something worth fighting for.
Say what you will about my being nineteen, immature, irrational, naive, inexperienced, etc. But you haven't seen me cry, and if you have then you haven't read my journal, and if you have then you must emotionally detached, which is common these days. I am sorry for your loss.
It is Spring Break and I got kicked out of the dorms. Most kids went home or on some trip that their parents paid for, but I am crashing at my friend's house while they are camping so that I can work. I was kind of excited about it because the house is nice and big and has multiple rooms with rugs and couches and barstools, but I'm one of those people that likes everything exactly their way. And nothing here is my way.
The house is owned by some single dude who used to live here and rent out a condo, but then he couldn't afford to live here so he now lives in the condo and rents out the house. It is fully furnished and cluttered with horrible picture arrangements and Civil War paraphernalia. He has a framed doily hanging next to the side door and a collection of antique baking utensils and pans on another wall. The dining room is full of things that "could be sold" but haven't, and Mike (my friend who lives here and is basically the house manager) has not taken any initiative to make it better.
It's not that everything in it is awful, it's just the way it's been set up. I hate plain walls, but that doesn't mean I'm going to plaster horrible groupings of shit in horrible frames all over them. Okay, it's not all shit, some of them actually have pictures of his family and friends, but mostly it's shit.
One day, hopefully within the next year or two when I have my own reality TV show where I fix people and introduce them to clean, enjoyable living, I will take places like this and the people that live in them and make it all better.
Seriously, the dude owns FOUR coffee makers, FOUR! I just don't get it.
I do believe that all of this stem from my upbringing and how as a child I used to hoard things and then when my mother would come in with a black garbage bag I would flip out and then, when she was napping, I would remove the bag from the bin outside and hide it in my closet. Why? Because those were MY THINGS! And of course after a month it would start to smell and I would throw it out myself. It wasn't until my sisters introduced me to containers that I started to enjoy organizing and as a result I love throwing things away, cleaning out drawers, cleaning out closets, cleaning out everything.
When I was thirteen I babysat for this family who lived in an exceptionally messy house. I thought I'd do them a favor and organize their kitchen after I put the kids to bed and discovered that they had fifteen skillets, and gave up. The kitchen in the house now is much larger but needs just as much help. And the garbage disposal doesn't work, but MIKE DIDN'T TELL ME! And I had to find out the hard way when the sink backed up and took hours to drain.
Only two more days, and then I will return to my cage.
I would just like to say that for everyone who has not met me, or had a conversation with me that was longer than an hour, you sorely have the wrong impression.
I went to my coworker's place. She and I always make plans and they always fall through, and since I'd never been I thought the polite thing to do - as I usually do when I go somewhere I've never been, or you know a party - I brought a case of Yuengling and because I had passed Krispy Kreme on the way I brought a dozen donuts.
I may not be the PBR-metal/hardcore-bike gang-lover that Richmond seems to be full of, and I may in fact be a complete bitch, goddamnit, I care about these fucking people that don't give a fucking shit about me.
(That last line may have been too honest, and I may regret it later.)
A certain guy last night based his opinion of me complete on the fact that I hate PBR (and most cheap beer) and listening to hard-core anything (that's not to say that I don't appreciate it, it's just not my preference). Later in the evening after I had danced, mostly by myself - Richmond dances less than DC, I managed to find myself in a conversation with this guy and a couple of others about the difference between being a nice person and a good person.
They all strive to be "nice guys" and I find the word almost repulsive. Nice is what you say about someone when you don't have anything better (or worse) to say about them. I find that nice people are boring, followers, people-pleasers, etc. Awful, right?
These boys believe that everyone should be nice. All the time. This is my beef with Richmond. It's the fact that I am incapable of sitting back, shooting the shit while getting oblitereated.
Good people do things without talking about them. I suppose they're humble, and while I'm not humble at all, I think that I don't go out of my way to talk about "good deeds." You all know or have known someone that has done something "good" and talked about it too much.
One thing led to another and we were onto first impressions and why they matter. I think they're everything, and well these guys disagree. (Is it apparent that we are complete opposites?) So then, why did I bring the beer and donuts? Am I nice, or good? I thought I was being polite, a topic that they had never heard of. And apparently it was pretentious. I just can't win, but then again, this conversation was in a group and didn't last more than twenty minutes. And when it was all over, they got free heart-shaped-sprinkled donuts. Sometimes I'm just too nice.
Today at lunch Garrett and I started talking about this past weekend and the rediculousness that ensued (that was his ex that we ran into). And then of course we talked about Richmond and I gave him yet more reasons as to why it sucks, today it was mostly the overabundance of Fat People.
"Do you hate fat people?" (Isn't Garrett cute?) Of course I hate Fat People. They take up too much space. They are often angry and overall unpleasant. Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Do not confuse Fat People with being overweight. Being overweight describes most people at some point in their lives. I have plenty of friends that are overweight, I am probably a little bit (but losing weight could cause damage, i.e. the loss of my wonderful breasts and ass. You've seen them, they are amazing! I believe that if I were to ever lose them it would be detrimental to society.) but my friends and I aren't fat. Not at all. Fat people are typically obese, dress horribly (they wear sweatpants from Wal-Mart and oversized t-shirts with some cartoon on them, you know what I'm saying) and are overall painful to be with. The later is the most important. Fat People just do not understand how to get along with other people.
There are some Fat People that dress well, you may even mistake them for an overweight person. Do not let this throw you off. Stay on track. Their fatness will soon manifest itself as soon as they open their mouths. For example, I was at the Ting-Tings show this summer and there were these two fat girls in front of me. They were not dancing, they were not having a good time, they were complaining about all the people (at a sold-out show), they were upset that people were touching them, and the were especially upset when me and Zak (intern) shoved past them to the front. Now, I could go on a rant about how annoying it is when people in front don't dance, but that's another post. These girls tried to tell us that they were there first, blahblahblah... They were dressed well, but were breaking all club-show rules. They suck, right? Exactly! Character flaw.
Well what about those that can't help being overweight? I already explained this by differinciating between Overweight People and Fat People. Now, if you are a fat person and have health issues, well, I just don't have any sympathy. Like people with Diabetes. Man, that sucks, but were they taking care of themselves before they were diagnosed? Did they eat healthy food and excercise? Or did they sit on the couch and eat Doritos while watching Lifetime? If it's the former then I can sympathize. I certianly don't have bean-pole-body, or a high metabolism. In fact I have a thyroid disorder that's under control, but if I didn't take care of myself I would certainly gain weight, and that could lead to Diabetes and Heart Disese, both of which run in my family.
If it's the later, well then they deserve it. Nothing good comes from Doritos, they just make me bloated. And even less good comes from Lifetime;I swear that channel was developed for overweight women just to turn them into vapid Fat People by encouraging them to relate to depressing stories.
*Mom, I'm talking to you! Watch it, I mean, don't watch Lifetime, I know you do!
Last year Trevor and I agreed that Fat People shouldn't be allowed to wear athletic shorts and sweatshirts.Isn't it ironic that they can be cuaght in athletic gear when they never take part in physical activities? And isn't it a shame that that's one of the few things that fits them?
In other news, my Focused Inquiry teacher wants to meet me before class on Monday to discuss something that will take about twnety minutes. He wouldn't say what. I'm pretty sure that it's going to be about my negative attitude in his class, or the questionaire that we had to fill out at the beginning of the class, on which I encouraged him to stop parting his hair down the middle and to grow some facial hair. He is one of those people that is happy all the time, in a creepy way; like my eighth grade french teacher Mme. Rustan who smiled all the time except for the times she would look down to relax her mouth before continuing what she was saying with a smile. She didn't like me either, expecially when I wrote "busy work" in the heading of my paper where the name of the assignment was supposed to go (it was on a day we had a sub). I had to show my parents and get it signed and she gave the entire class a lecture about busy work and how if you were to use that term you had better have an A - I did not have an A. My FI teacher and I have a similar repoire. This year will be interesting, to say the least. Who knows, maybe we'll be best friends by the end of the year. Probably not, but he will probably say something about how he wants to be my friend on Monday. Oh, dear.
I have been in Richmond for about three weeks. I am missing The District quite horribly and everone who is aware of this assures me that I'm writing Richmond off far too quickly and that I should give it a chance. They are right, I know they are. It's just far more difficult to find something to do in the evenings than it is in DC.
Of course I'm not including parties, well, because that's not really my thing. I'm fine with everyone having a gay old time, but once the cocaine is out, I'm gone. People in this city are much more laid back than I am. I don't understand their lack-luster qualities. They like to consider themselves artists and work waiting tables. And afterward go to a house party. A house party? Really? I understand that people have them at all ages, but when you grow up their referred to as an "open house," a "get together," "a cookout," etc. They are not, however, referred to as "house parties."
House parties usually incorporate lots of underage kids getting smashed and then having irresponsible sex with each other, or going home alone wishing they were having irresponsible sex, though they refer to it as just sex.
I'm being too analytical. I know. I should probably be immersing myself in the college culture, but how many times have I said that I was born five years too late? Really people, I know I'm a snob, but I am so above this.
I'm not going to lie and say that I don't drink, because I do, occasionally, but never in excess, because I'm a control freak. I've had lots of people in my lifetime tell me to "loosen up." It has not happened. I have remained this very tight, judgmental person. It suits me very well thank you.
Drinking should be enjoyed, the end result isn't to get drunk as everyone on any campus would have you believe, it is to be tasted, not chugged. Though chugging is the only way anyone would be able to drink the cheap stuff they've got. It's gross. Natural Ice, or "Natty's" is probably the absolute worst thing I have ever tasted; how I would imagine piss tasting. And yet, they drink it, and it's siblings Budlight, Corona, etc.
Sex. We all know that college boys only care about getting laid, which is fine, whatever, it's expected, and that would be all fine and dandy if girls were programmed the same way. Some are, some aren't. Most aren't. And most are stupid. They dress up in their trashiest attire wanting to look "hot" - they set out wanting to attract these overly-hormonal boys and expect to be respected? That's idiotic, but because they are idiots, they will have sex with these guys and almost immediately regret it. Luckily my roommate isn't one of these idiots.
So, what will I be doing tonight? I've been invited to a couple parties, one of which is "lingerie/boxers/toga" themed. It does not sound exceptionally entertaining, and I'm going to go ahead an guess that the music will be horrendous. If this were going on in DC, at The Hotel, which it does, annually, except it's just "underwear" themed it would be full of somewhat responsible, despite being intoxicated adults.
I hate my peers. It's a problem I have, I'm well aware of it, and I should appreciate that they're "growing up" but I'd really much rather just skip that part. But since I'm going to be here for four years, I suppose I'll just have to dig deeper to find something worthwhile.
Like friends. I should make some. It's not that I haven't been trying. I've been pleasant to everyone I've met, but I haven't met anyone that has really struck my fancy. My roommate is cool, the RD in my building is cool -he's also thirty-two, this kid that sits next to me in economics is pretty cool (despite being a townie). So I'm trying, I really am, kind of, when I'm not wondering around on my bike or studying at Penny Lane's.
Despite my quasi-anti-social appearance the past few weeks. I have made an effort. I have been to information meetings regarding the school paper, magazine (non-literary, those people were weirder than they were in high school, of course I was ed-in-chief, so I'm biased, but still) and the radio-station. And for the first time ever I'm actually doing homework/studying, even if it interrupted by videos of Christopher Hitchens on YouTube.
In addition to all of this craziness I've managed to erase my entire music library from my Ipod. So now, I'm stuck listening to a bunch of mixed CD's (though the best mixes ever made) a friend made for me, the two CD's I've bought since coming here - Lykke Li, and Wolf Parade - the albums I have, but I need to get a preamp, and of course the internet. I've been listening to this song a lot and listening to Imeem.
Let it be known that I love horrible television. Not the Jerry Springer type of trash but the dramatic type of horror.
Since coming to school my roommate and I have made a habit of catching 'Project Runway' each way. And after the first week an very sad kind of doofy girl on our floor has started to join us. She talks throughout the whole show. And not just comments like "That's cute" or "What were they thinking!" Comments like "I really like this show, which season is this?" and she'll go on. And it's not just during the commercials, it's during the actual show. We just deal because we don't want to be mean. Crazy, I know.
So currently I"m watching 'Gossip Girl' and she has walked by several times, each of which she feels the need to comment on how much she likes this show. Luckily she's not actually watching it with me. Thank God.
As you all know, I work at the Haircuttery. It's not so bad, I'm used to being around people with different views than I have, but I never bargained for what I've found there. I also know I'm a snob and consider my opinions and ways of doing things quite a bit higher than other's; but sometimes there is no reasoning with people (aka convincing them that they are wrong).
At work last week on a particularly slow day three of us were in the back "reading" Elle and Glamour magazines. In them there is an add for Skechers with Tori Spelling in it. She looks weird, especially in those adds. This began a discussion that led to me telling the other girls of my hatred for Sketchers. Usually I'm around fellow haters (with the exception of my mother who thinks they're wonderful looking shoes but bad on her back), but unknown to me I was in the presence of people who actually like Everything about Skechers. I tried to explain that they are cheaply made (of plastic), have that horribly huge S on them, generally ugly, etc. but there was no reasoning. Then one girl started complaining about her back - this particular girl is cheap, very cheap, and overweight. If you wear cheap shoes with absolutely no support and carry a few extra pounds, in addition to being on your feet at work everyday, of course your back is going to hurt.
I've tried to explain to her several times that she needs to get inserts, to which she replys, "I have. I've bought those Doctor Scholl's ones." No, I tell her, you need to see a podiatrist and get custom ones made. She then complains about how much that would cost, but she's considering getting back surgery!?!?!?!?! Three hundred dollars on something that could help you a lot and avoid the surgery or thousands of dollars on an avoidable surgery. This is the same girl who tells me that she knows losing weight would help her but she's just so lazy. She has told me that she is lazy. AGH!
Moving on/going back, that conversation led to us discussing trailors, and me of course in my typical nature telling everyone that I hate trailors, too. Trailors are generally crappy, trailor parks are gross, and the people that live there aren't usually much better. I feel I can say this because I've spent plenty of time (not lately) around/in trailors growing up with family in the south where a double-wide is the standard of living. Ms. Cheapy apparently grew up in a trailor, and was now offended. I almost felt bad... almost.
The other girl with us could see where I was coming from but thought that I was being a bit harsh (haven't heard that before). I love this girl, she is one of the sanest people that I work with, exceptionally talented and should be doing so much better than the Haircuttery. And then she had to drop thie awful bomb on me a few days ago when we were discussing music. She knows that I go to shows fairly often, and asked what my favorite band was/is - that she's heard of. I told her the Killers. Her's is Nickelback. NICKELBACK! She thinks that his voice is one of the best of today, and that Brandon Flowers' voice is whiney! Whiney!?
I'm not going to waste my time explaining why Nickelback is the worst band of all time (and Creed, and Korn).
