Monday, February 28, 2011
Verdi
Along with a much more tragic loss that I'm not sure you readers need to know about (deaths do come in clusters), my parakeet got real sick and had to be put down. Rest well, old bird.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Toilet
It's almost the one-year anniversary of an event that shook me to the core and helped to shape me into the person I am today. I was ashamed at first but now enough time has passed that no matter who reads this, there couldn't possibly be any hard feelings anymore.
Last year, one of my friends - we'll call her Ollie - was going to miss an awesome party because she had to go to her then-boyfriend's frat formal at U of M. Being the engineering frat, not all of the boys were... winners, and I decided in a fit of cockiness to volunteer my best friend and myself as hot blind dates. I didn't want Ollie to feel left out and I saw it as an awesome opportunity for adventure. I insisted it would be a blast and that we had nothing to lose. I somehow talked everybody into it, acquiring random dates for my best friend and I, while setting my work schedule around the certainty of going. Naturally I didn't realize the sheer ridiculousness of it all til we parked the car outside the building. My desperate pleas to go back were not taken seriously.
Though the night was laced with moments of epicness and awkwardness (mostly awkwardness), there was one certain moment that I thought would haunt me forever.
Disclaimer: it may be gross.
It was some ungodly hour of the morning that Ollie and I realized neither of us had used the bathroom in half an eon. Being located in an enormous frat house, we found some back-room bathroom where the contents of the toilet bowl must have been at least 90% standing frat-boy urine. Ollie stood guard while I squatted for some light business. I flushed but before Ollie entered after me she pointed out that the flush was unsuccessful. I acted before my brain processed what I saw: the toilet had been clogged by previous users. But I cranked down on that lever somewhere between 3 and 10 times before my brain synapses released a delayed warning.
The toilet instantly overflowed like a treacherous witch's brew.
It bubbled over and splashed onto the floor, flooding the little bathroom in an instant. The horror. It all happened so fast. Never before had I witnessed the catastrophic result of acting before thinking... not like THIS. The pee-water was headed for me. I knew that if it hit me I'd just die on the spot, my soul rejecting my body out of pure repulsion. But by some luck, as I stared at my feet, they moved, as if possessed by the will to live. Amazing gazelle-like reflexes kicked in and I avoided the pee-water lava by mere milliseconds.
Ollie and I slammed the door shut and ran the HELL outta there. The pisswater slowed but oozed out from under the door. We didn't stick around to see what else happened. There were no other witnesses.
We made a pact to never speak of it again (which failed over time but kept us sane for the rest of the night). Whenever we caught each other's eyes, our glances were grave, or we giggled out of ridiculousness and fear. We barely found the nerve to let our other friend in on it, which must have been real damn annoying and I'm retrospectively sorry for that.
We never heard of what happened to that bathroom. We checked the scene of the crime the next day and found it clean, as if I never unleashed the chaos of what had to have been Pandora's toilet bowl. Day by day I got over the post-traumatic stress of destroying the plumbing of a building with which I really had no business. It's been a process, the final point being today: I have grown brave enough to blog about it. It was horrible at the time but retrospectively hilarious. I'm over it.
... but I still wonder who had to clean that hot mess up.
Last year, one of my friends - we'll call her Ollie - was going to miss an awesome party because she had to go to her then-boyfriend's frat formal at U of M. Being the engineering frat, not all of the boys were... winners, and I decided in a fit of cockiness to volunteer my best friend and myself as hot blind dates. I didn't want Ollie to feel left out and I saw it as an awesome opportunity for adventure. I insisted it would be a blast and that we had nothing to lose. I somehow talked everybody into it, acquiring random dates for my best friend and I, while setting my work schedule around the certainty of going. Naturally I didn't realize the sheer ridiculousness of it all til we parked the car outside the building. My desperate pleas to go back were not taken seriously.
Though the night was laced with moments of epicness and awkwardness (mostly awkwardness), there was one certain moment that I thought would haunt me forever.
Disclaimer: it may be gross.
It was some ungodly hour of the morning that Ollie and I realized neither of us had used the bathroom in half an eon. Being located in an enormous frat house, we found some back-room bathroom where the contents of the toilet bowl must have been at least 90% standing frat-boy urine. Ollie stood guard while I squatted for some light business. I flushed but before Ollie entered after me she pointed out that the flush was unsuccessful. I acted before my brain processed what I saw: the toilet had been clogged by previous users. But I cranked down on that lever somewhere between 3 and 10 times before my brain synapses released a delayed warning.
The toilet instantly overflowed like a treacherous witch's brew.
It bubbled over and splashed onto the floor, flooding the little bathroom in an instant. The horror. It all happened so fast. Never before had I witnessed the catastrophic result of acting before thinking... not like THIS. The pee-water was headed for me. I knew that if it hit me I'd just die on the spot, my soul rejecting my body out of pure repulsion. But by some luck, as I stared at my feet, they moved, as if possessed by the will to live. Amazing gazelle-like reflexes kicked in and I avoided the pee-water lava by mere milliseconds.
Ollie and I slammed the door shut and ran the HELL outta there. The pisswater slowed but oozed out from under the door. We didn't stick around to see what else happened. There were no other witnesses.
We made a pact to never speak of it again (which failed over time but kept us sane for the rest of the night). Whenever we caught each other's eyes, our glances were grave, or we giggled out of ridiculousness and fear. We barely found the nerve to let our other friend in on it, which must have been real damn annoying and I'm retrospectively sorry for that.
We never heard of what happened to that bathroom. We checked the scene of the crime the next day and found it clean, as if I never unleashed the chaos of what had to have been Pandora's toilet bowl. Day by day I got over the post-traumatic stress of destroying the plumbing of a building with which I really had no business. It's been a process, the final point being today: I have grown brave enough to blog about it. It was horrible at the time but retrospectively hilarious. I'm over it.
... but I still wonder who had to clean that hot mess up.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Venom
I wished upon the first star I saw as I walked to work this morning.
I wished for the ability to spit venom.
It was admittedly an irrational wish, but upon weighing all the possibilities of interpretation, there is absolutely nothing that could go wrong with my wish. I wished for the ABILITY to spit venom, implying not only would I be capable of spitting, but I could also choose when to use my power. I did not wish for immortality, flight, or the golden touch, and respectively I did not doom myself to live forever, fly forever or be gilded forever. The classic fables have taught me the importance of word manipulation. I'm such an English major.
Why would I want the ability to spit venom? Uhh to inflict damage on foes or prey, duh! I can only imagine how the brown-noser in class would react if I just stood up and ejected a stream of low-grade toxin across the table at her in the middle of her cacophonous sentence.
It's not like it's a crime to spit venom. I understand that harming people without reason is "wrong", but it's just like any self-defense mechanism. I would only strike when provoked. As long I don't kill people I'm basically in the clear. I also think that being a venomous college girl could fill a specific niche on campus as a much-needed vigilante, keeping a sort of order by holding the threat of snake-lady bites over everybody's head.
I just realized that I told you my wish and now it can't come true.
Anti-climatic.
I wished for the ability to spit venom.
It was admittedly an irrational wish, but upon weighing all the possibilities of interpretation, there is absolutely nothing that could go wrong with my wish. I wished for the ABILITY to spit venom, implying not only would I be capable of spitting, but I could also choose when to use my power. I did not wish for immortality, flight, or the golden touch, and respectively I did not doom myself to live forever, fly forever or be gilded forever. The classic fables have taught me the importance of word manipulation. I'm such an English major.
Why would I want the ability to spit venom? Uhh to inflict damage on foes or prey, duh! I can only imagine how the brown-noser in class would react if I just stood up and ejected a stream of low-grade toxin across the table at her in the middle of her cacophonous sentence.
It's not like it's a crime to spit venom. I understand that harming people without reason is "wrong", but it's just like any self-defense mechanism. I would only strike when provoked. As long I don't kill people I'm basically in the clear. I also think that being a venomous college girl could fill a specific niche on campus as a much-needed vigilante, keeping a sort of order by holding the threat of snake-lady bites over everybody's head.
I just realized that I told you my wish and now it can't come true.
Anti-climatic.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
hair troublems
When my hair was short, all I wanted was for it to be longer. Now that it's long, it's like it will never be long enough to satisfy me. After years of just assuming I wasn't allowed to have long hair, I became secretly obsessed with it. I don't know how to make it stop. Should I cut it super short again? Will that fix my hair length gluttony?
The last time I recall maintaining a short hairstyle, I was in my mid high school years, where I knew what it took to be pretty but not how to accomplish it. I didn't even know how to use foundation makeup properly, so on the rare occasions I did style my hair, it went awry. I like to think that in the past couple years I've grown girly skills - I use eyeliner now! - and if I were to cut it short, I could probably get it to look pretty nice on a daily basis. Hypothetically drawing, I'd aim for this:
There's a catch though: my hair is thin, flat, and useless. My hair's even thinner than angel's hair. Not the pasta. Like, actual angel's hair. Which I would imagine is real real thin to have minuscule pasta named after it. My hair can't hold anything like a curl for more than a few minutes unless sprayed with twice its mass of hairspray, which ends up weighing it down back flat anyway. It is also impossible to put any volume in it with all the science of the world (under a $5 budget). When my hair is at its wispy-worst, I look like a relatively well-complexioned bridge-troll with a comb-over.
Thin hair on a thin face with a big ol' pear-shaped lady-body is not a good look. Sorry, troll. Even if I DID find a way to fluff it up, I must not forget how lazy I am, and how infrequently I'd actually try.
Wow. I think I officially talked (wrote?) myself out of wanting short hair. Sorry, Brian, looks like you'll have to compliment my long hair instead.
The last time I recall maintaining a short hairstyle, I was in my mid high school years, where I knew what it took to be pretty but not how to accomplish it. I didn't even know how to use foundation makeup properly, so on the rare occasions I did style my hair, it went awry. I like to think that in the past couple years I've grown girly skills - I use eyeliner now! - and if I were to cut it short, I could probably get it to look pretty nice on a daily basis. Hypothetically drawing, I'd aim for this:
There's a catch though: my hair is thin, flat, and useless. My hair's even thinner than angel's hair. Not the pasta. Like, actual angel's hair. Which I would imagine is real real thin to have minuscule pasta named after it. My hair can't hold anything like a curl for more than a few minutes unless sprayed with twice its mass of hairspray, which ends up weighing it down back flat anyway. It is also impossible to put any volume in it with all the science of the world (under a $5 budget). When my hair is at its wispy-worst, I look like a relatively well-complexioned bridge-troll with a comb-over.
Thin hair on a thin face with a big ol' pear-shaped lady-body is not a good look. Sorry, troll. Even if I DID find a way to fluff it up, I must not forget how lazy I am, and how infrequently I'd actually try.
Wow. I think I officially talked (wrote?) myself out of wanting short hair. Sorry, Brian, looks like you'll have to compliment my long hair instead.
Monday, February 21, 2011
squirrel
I hit a squirrel today. Too much shock value? Let me start over:
Because of inclement weather, one of my classes was postponed for an hour. Within that hour, many suitemate shenanigans ensued, the final one being the discovery of a latent mold colony inside a coffee mug. Out of the goodness of my heart I decided to dispose of the now well-contained mug (hermetically sealed in a grocery bag full of febreeze). Running late for my already late class, I speed-walked past a trash can and power-chucked the nast-bomb inside.
I expected a small delay before hearing it thud against the bottom of the can, but instead I heard an almost instantaneous thuk followed by some sorta explosive blasting through the other side.
Yep. I managed to hit a squirrel as it was foraging through trash for winter sustenance. And I probably hit it really hard.
I laughed out loud like a mad scientist for about 2 seconds more than what would be considered socially acceptable. Somebody walking past even called me out for my creepiness. I then began to ponder the implications of what I had done: I had hit a squirrel with a bag filled with mold and febreeze. What would such chemicals do to the poor thing? Could it be that the squirrel became exposed and now was doomed to die of an unlikely poison combination? Or worse: will it become a MONSTROUS MOLD SQUIRREL MUTANT OUT TO GET ME FOR MY CRUELTY?!?
I hope the answer is "no" since I have yet to be attacked by a massive mold-squirrel. But only time will tell.
Because of inclement weather, one of my classes was postponed for an hour. Within that hour, many suitemate shenanigans ensued, the final one being the discovery of a latent mold colony inside a coffee mug. Out of the goodness of my heart I decided to dispose of the now well-contained mug (hermetically sealed in a grocery bag full of febreeze). Running late for my already late class, I speed-walked past a trash can and power-chucked the nast-bomb inside.
I expected a small delay before hearing it thud against the bottom of the can, but instead I heard an almost instantaneous thuk followed by some sorta explosive blasting through the other side.
Yep. I managed to hit a squirrel as it was foraging through trash for winter sustenance. And I probably hit it really hard.
I laughed out loud like a mad scientist for about 2 seconds more than what would be considered socially acceptable. Somebody walking past even called me out for my creepiness. I then began to ponder the implications of what I had done: I had hit a squirrel with a bag filled with mold and febreeze. What would such chemicals do to the poor thing? Could it be that the squirrel became exposed and now was doomed to die of an unlikely poison combination? Or worse: will it become a MONSTROUS MOLD SQUIRREL MUTANT OUT TO GET ME FOR MY CRUELTY?!?
I hope the answer is "no" since I have yet to be attacked by a massive mold-squirrel. But only time will tell.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Quirk
I've developed an odd habit recently.
Humans, when faced with a surprising stimulus, often react in one of two ways: fight, or flight. I tend to go for fight, and lately I've developed an oddly specific defensive response mechanism. I stand up straight, lock my knees, and fold my arms up like a tyrannosaurus rex.
I've yet to decide if this defense mechanism is actually beneficial or not. For now, it makes for good laughs. Cuz people make fun of me. A lot. Thanks, sympathetic nervous system. You are sympathetic to my survival in stressful situations yet ultimately you lack sympathy for my social life.
Humans, when faced with a surprising stimulus, often react in one of two ways: fight, or flight. I tend to go for fight, and lately I've developed an oddly specific defensive response mechanism. I stand up straight, lock my knees, and fold my arms up like a tyrannosaurus rex.
Though I can see why this wouldn't be surprising to you, readers, it is to me. I usually walk around like a dinosaur as a joke. But I worry now that it is becoming all too natural. T-Rex Mode is honestly my brain's first subconscious response to stimuli. The other day my roommate and I were just walking back to our building when we encountered a sudden patch of ice. With a wave of squeamishness I slammed on my feet-brakes, stood stock-still, and held my arms up for attack.
My roommate made fun of me, justly, and ever since I've been trying to remember when and why I do this... this t-rex thing. In the days since the first incident, I've noticed that if I am suddenly facing a fork in an unfamiliar path, or if somebody shouts out something foreboding like "STOP!", I seize up like I'm braced for meteor impact. Clearly it's the fear of the unknown that gets my primordial, more accurately mesozoic, instincts to kick in.
I've yet to decide if this defense mechanism is actually beneficial or not. For now, it makes for good laughs. Cuz people make fun of me. A lot. Thanks, sympathetic nervous system. You are sympathetic to my survival in stressful situations yet ultimately you lack sympathy for my social life.
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