Labels

If you notice, blogger now lets me apply labels to my posts. I'm sure I could have done this myself before, but I don't know HTML and am too lazy to learn it. So it's nice that I don't have to think at all in order to label. I'll try to keep the number of labels to a minimum since there's no need for a single post to fall into 5,456,346 categories.

I think my labels are pretty clear. When I hate someone/something, it falls under hatred; when I get new shoes, that's where it goes. Easy enough. There are two labels, however, that aren't as straightforward:

Are you serious? This is my label for things or people that confound me. When I see someone walking around downtown DC in a powersuit while brushing his teeth, this is the thought that crosses my mind. Anything of that nature will receive this label.

What's wrong with me? This is an appropriate label in two situations. The first assumes that the reader is wondering what is wrong with me, and the post is a small effort towards enlightenment. The second situation is when the reader wonders what is wrong with me after reading the post.¹ This is appropriate when I get started on some random topic that annoys me or feel strongly about. When actual people hear these thoughts coming from my own mouth, I am usually confronted with looks of confusion that say to me, "You actually think about this?" To which I respond with an expression that says, "Of course I think about this, I'm CRAZY." In short, "What's wrong with me?" is both a pre-post question and a post-post reaction.²

So that's the labels. More will probably be created as time passes. Or not. It's not that big a deal.


¹ Hint: The answer is "so many things."
² Now that's an awkward term. Post-post = after the post for the dull knives in the drawer.

I Am Selfish

I cannot stop buying things for myself. I took the day off and decided to get through at least some of my Christmas shopping. I did eventually, but not before I got some new Adidas. The first two pairs shown are just new since the last time I posted up shoe pictures. The Adidas, however, are quite fresh.

Still Dirrty

If you recall, I have a dirty mind. I can't help it; the dirty/inappropriate thoughts just pop up in my mind for no reason whatsoever.¹ For a little while there, it felt like these thoughts weren't occurring as often as usual, and I almost started to believe that I was growing up. Now I know that this is not the case, the the last few weeks have simply been full of other distractions. In retrospect, I realize that it was not a lack of sexual innuendo,² but a deluge of poop/fart jokes. Do not fret, dear readers,³ I am still as immature as ever.

At work yesterday, we recieved gift bags. Included in these was C.O. Bigelow lip balm. Of course, I tried it and found it to be delicious. I want to smear it on a bagel. Just today, I realized that the previous lip application I was biased towards was a praline flavor, and now this new lip balm is almond flavored.

I'm predisposed towards the flavor of nut on my lips. Tell me that isn't the wrong-est thought in life.


¹ Actually, there are reasons, just not very good ones.
² In your endo.
³ All three of you; though I'm sure I'm overestimating.

I Don't Care

So it's been a good two weeks since I've posted, and normally, I would come up with some sort of excuse. I'm too lazy to do so, which, coincidentally, is the same reason I haven't been posting lately.

Actually, that's a lie. I was pretty busy at work for a couple of weeks and alternating between complete and total focus on work and complete and total focus on procrastination, I had no time to come up with a post. I did, however, make a list of possible topics to write about, which I promptly lost. Damn that document eating room of mine! For some reason, it's more difficult to try to remember a topic that I already thought of instead of simply coming up with a new topic.

This has never been a "this is what I've been doing with my life" blog, and I have no intention of turning it into one, but I now understand why there are so many of that type out there: it takes no thinking whatsoever to come up with a topic. Although these tend to be very consistent in terms of how often posts are published, they also tend to be very boring. Unless you have some kind of dramatic¹ ongoing saga, super entertaining/exciting life, or an exceptionally developed sense of storytelling, I don't care about what you did today. It's just not that interesting.

I am not saying that elements of your own life should be shunned when writing about anything. On the contrary, being able to relate something to your own life allows a greater ability to extrapolate upon said topic. What I'm against are the people that think that this warrants a Pulitzer:

Wow, I should *really* be concentrating on school nowadays, but things havent been working out that way. In fact, I didn't do any of my homework on the weekend until Monday... Which is usually unlike me. Ever since I got back to Drexel, I've been partying it up almost every single day. I think it has to do the fact that I dont have internet yet. YES I DONT HAVE INTERNET. and where am I? the library...Ah the pain..I definately can't remember every single thing I did in the last 3 wks, but its safe to say I can remember what I did this weekend. On Friday I went out to the KSA initiation and had a blast. I twas aweomse seeing everyone again. I also went out with my friend and his family to Joy Tsin Lau in Chinatown so I was late for the inititation, but apparently I didn't miss much at all which was good. Anyway, I had a few girly drinks, but it was no biggie. I danced a bit w muh girlies and got back at 2am with no pictures to show for it. Saturday I got auctioned off which was really weird, but fun! My friend was the highest bidder and my friends and his friends went back to my place to chillout for awhile b4 the afterparty. I also bought a guy myself! haha it was funny. I finally got to meet my friend's cousin, Chris, which was pretty cool too. We all walked over to the afterparty late but it was so beat so we left and Marianne and her cousin had to go home. Sarah slept over and it was an awesome night. Sunday I went back to new york and hung out with the parents for awhile and then went out with my other friends from st johns. We went bowling and I had some bubbletea with Pham. I bowled the highest the first game :) yayyyyy! so I got back home around 2am and called it a night cuz I had to wake up around 6am....Monday I got back to Philly and then played some sports and did some homework till 11pm and my brain was fried so I stopped at that point. WHAT A WEEKEND

I have not changed anything in this post. Clearly, this person² did not pay much attention in elementary school english class. While the (lack of) grammar is painful in itself, the topic is equally torturous. Does anyone really care what she did this weekend? I know that I don't.

Now you're saying, "Of course you don't care! You don't even know this girl. On a related note, this girl could be dead right now, having been viciously murdered by this 'Chris' character she just met. How insensitive of you." To that I say, "Who the fuck cares?"

You can argue that I'm being hypocritical in that I'm bashing someone for writing about events while I simply stick to random topics. Even I think it's hypocritical. Maybe what bothers me is the fact that 5 million other people have posted the exact same thing with different names. Perhaps it is the complete and utter disregard for the rules of grammar. In any case, I'm annoyed by it.


¹ Without being annoying, though.
² A typical AZN chick, I'm sorry, but not surprised, to say. Bitches make the rest of us look bad.

SRT #26: It's not my fault it's late.

Yesterday, Blogger was experiencing technical difficulties, and I was unable to post all day. I assumed that it would be fixed later in the day, but alas, it was not. I definitely remember having a topic in mind to write about yesterday, but by this time, it has left my mind. Blame blogger for the lack of entertainment.

A Good Laugh

I finally got a new scanner, so I've decided to give people a good laugh. Enjoy.

SRT #25

I am the queen of the impulse buyers. It’s a disease really, I have no control over my actions when I’m in a state of not needing something, but desperately wanting it. For example, a t-shirt that I desperately wanted was reprinted on Threadless this week, and the moment I received notice, I ordered it.¹ But why would I want to pay shipping for only a single shirt? Needless to say, I ordered four shirts ($40) at that time. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. However, not one week ago did my package containing five shirts arrive from the same site ($50). Fours days ago, I received two pairs of shoes ($160), and yesterday, a hoodie ($75) arrived. All of these were purchased with little to no thought except to which shoes would go with which shirts. All purchasing decisions were made in less than two minutes.

And now you ask, "How does this qualify as super random? These are not random occurrences, but a definite purchasing pattern." I agree with this completely. However, the average amount that I spend on impulse shopping is around $100. This past weekend, I decidedly upped that average with the purchase of a Mini Cooper. Within less than a week, I felt the need to buy a car and then went out and got one. For such a large purchase, I’d say it qualifies as the ultimate impulse buy. Despite my recklessness, I bought a car well within my means to own and maintain. So while my impulses may be hard² to ignore, I do have some ability to make sure they’re manageable to a certain extent.

¹ The e-mail also told me about the $10/shirt sale.
² Impossible?

It's Only the Beginning

I’m an analytical writer. Most of my job consists of looking things up and then writing long reports about them. It does not require much interaction with my co-workers. The only people I actually need to speak with are the director, the members of an expert panel to whom I present my reports, and the administrative assistant. I’ve never had any problems functioning in office settings in the past, but something new came up today.¹ I had forgotten to include some data with all the reports that got mailed out to the panel yesterday and needed to send them out as soon as possible, so I asked the assistant to do it. I’ve never needed anything from the assistant until this point, and it felt weird to ask her to do shit for me for a couple of reasons:

1. Until this job, I was always at the bottom of the office hierarchy. Even when I wasn’t necessarily someone’s bitch, I had to do all of my clerical/administrative tasks myself. There simply wasn’t anyone willing/able to do it for me. In other jobs, I was the office bitch and had to deal with many people’s constant idiocy. In a work setting, it’s new and different for me to have someone else do things that I really could do myself but prefer not to.

2. The assistant is older than me, not by much, but she is. I’m guessing around 26-27ish compared to my age of less than 26-27ish. This isn’t really a significant difference, but it is there. I’ve always been raised to respect/defer to people older than me, no matter what the age difference, and have generally held by this rule for most people.² It’s strange to have rank over someone older than me. It just feels awkward.

I’ve never been the boss of anyone before this, but I should get used to it soon enough. It’s just weird to have someone to do shit for me. The worst thing that could happen is my going on a huge power trip, which would lead to having the assistant do things like pick up my dry-cleaning or systematically take over small, defenseless countries so as to build up my base(es) of operations in a bid to take over the world. If this pans out, I’ll soon rule a world in which all people’s job title is “Assistant to the Glorious Supreme Sovereign.”

And to think this will all begin with having someone do my mailing.


¹ It’s not problematic, just new.
² This is unless we get to be friends, in which case I’ll expose them to my particular brand of sarcasm/cynicism/haterade.

SRT #24

Do you remember finding things to be much funnier when you were a kid? I know I do. At least every other day, something happened which caused me to laugh unto the point of severe abdominal cramps. Now, the only thing giving me abdominal cramps on a regular basis is the crimson tide.* Why doesn't anything of that level of amusement happen anymore? Is it me? Have I actually grown up to a point where shit just isn't as funny?

Would your 10 year old self look at you now with sadness?


* Nothing should bleed for 5-7 days without dying. It's not right.

SRT #23

At work yesterday, we were discussing topics that might need to have reports drafted next year. The ingredient lavender came up as someone had sent an inquiry to the office as to its status in the industry. According to the inquirer, lavender may cause breast formation in young men. This turned into a scientific conversation which will bore you (as it did me) close to tears. While in the process of tuning everything out, I made a realization: If a young man is using lavender in such large quantities that it’s messing with his endocrine system, he probably wants breasts.

Who am I to stand in the way of a young man’s dreams?

Who's On Your Team?

I just finished reading The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead by Max Brooks. Half humor and half horror, it’s quite a good read, and I highly recommend it. While/after reading it, it got me thinking about who I would want with me in the event of a mass zombie infestation (or any other end of the world type scenario). Who do I know that would be useful in this situation?

Unfortunately, not too many people seem up for the task. I’ve been told that I would be good in an emergency simply because I generally have a knife and lighter with me at all times. So at least people would want me on their team. Also, I do have a tendency to try and figure out how everyday objects can be used as weapons.¹ So in case of zombie attack, pick me; I’m a good investment.

Who would I want on my team though? I’m going to stick with people in the tri-state area for the sake of convenience. My dad would be good for home base type operations. He’s low on mobility, but excellent at improvising in construction. Also, he can cook and do all of those outdoorsy type things that are helpful. I have a fake-me-out cousin who’s a doctor and in excellent shape. He’s totally in. Among my cousins, none are especially useful. I could probably take on one or two others, providing that all of us are able to stop acting like children in each others’ presence. However, they consist mostly of fatties and nerds who lack common sense/real world skills. Useful family members are lacking. Most are out, which is too bad, but shit happens.

Who else to recruit? I know a couple of sportsball type people and they could potentially be very useful. The thing about these dudes though is that they would most likely prove to have authority problems, which cannot exist when trying to survive the impending zombie invasion. They are second tier, providing they can demonstrate non-douchbag tendencies, in which case they will be bumped up to the top tier. Also, anyone I know that’s into guns/knows how to use guns has an automatic in.

In such an event, I will probably have to abandon my female friends.² I don’t need whining supply-whores who can’t fight and will most likely be unable to dispatch a zombie. Given whatever the situation may be, I might be able to bring a couple along. For example, if there is early warning and many of the obstacles that would impede a large group haven’t formed yet, I’d try to bring some along. Too bad that probably won’t be the case. It’s a shame.

In any case, I need to figure this out. I suggest you do the same.

¹ I get bored at class/work. Sue me.
² Sorry, guys.

Will Someone Please Think of the Eskimos?!

Dear Magic Hate Ball,

I've always had issues with my weight. I was the chubby kid, the "big-boned" teenager, and the easy fat chick in college. At my worst, I weighed about as much as an adolescent walrus. However, I've lost literally hundreds of pounds due to a strict diet, including gastric bypass sugery followed by a severe case of bulimia. I've successfully kept my weight in the range of 200-215 pounds. I'd like to show off my new slimmer body with low-rise jeans, mini-skirts, halter and tube tops, and other clothing of this type. My family is very against this. They say they are supportive of my dietary choices, and they're proud of my weight loss, but they refuse to support my new fashion sense. How can I tell them that this is what I want without alienating them?

Looking At Reflections Don't Offend

And the Hate Ball says: My eyes! MY EYES!!

Dear LARDO,

I suppose I'm happy for your dramatic weight loss. After all, the female walrus weighs about 1,900 pounds. That's an incredible loss. How did the surgeons ever reach your stomach to begin with? How many interns were there to hold the fat flaps back? You could have fed an Eskimo community for a week. But let's address your question.

There are a number of factors involved in this: your pride in your weight loss, the opinion of your family, fashion, and public safety. I'm glad that you lost 1,700 pounds. Losing the weight of an exceptionally large kindergarten class is quite impressive. In my opinion, however, that gastric bypass procedure is cheating. Instead of bypassing your stomach, you should have just bypassed those hams, cakes, and tubs of lard. That's just me.

But back to you. Your family's opinion clearly means a lot to you. Listen to them! They are not only looking out for you, but for the safety of my eyes. For you to wear tiny tiny clothes is a crime against fashion and humanity. There is a reason tiny tiny models wear these tiny tiny clothes: it looks best on them. You don't see Mo'nique wearing the same outfit as Kate Moss, it just doesn't happen. Also, it's just cruelty to the clothes to make them strain like that. A pair of jeans was not meant to fit around a thousand inch waist, that is why god gave us elastic. As for humanity, why would you subject innocent bystanders to such atrocities? It's just mean. Don't you worry about the well-being of my eyes? Seeing so many rolls on one person will send me into a fit of seizures from which I may never recover.

i write i

My Demise

I drink a Snapple almost every day. Lately, I've had a tendency to go for the Snapple white tea, which is delicious. Today's Real fact is:

In a year, the average person walks four miles making his or her bed.

Unless, of course, you're me. I never understood the point of making the bed, especially when the only one seeing the bed is you. If you're having people over, and for some reason or another, they're going to see your bed, go ahead and fix it up. However, if the next person to see the bed is you right before you get into it, thus messing it all up again, what is the point?

I suppose I could do with the exercise, as I'm quite lazy, and get out of bed only to get into the car, then bus, then office. After this long period of sitting, I sit on the way home, then on a couch, then go back to bed. Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise. In fact, the most walking I get in is when I go out, during which time I stand in bars and then walk from bar to bar. Unfortunately, the physical benefits of all this walking and standing is negated by the other activities I'm engaged in. This Snapple fact has led me to discover the cause of my future demise: Becoming a fatty.

Damn you, Snapple!

SRT #22

Grammar is vital. Without it, all of our extensive vocabularies and pseudo-impressive words are useless. I've been brought up to be a bit of a grammar whore, something that I now appreciate in my education. Unfortunately for most of my peers, grammar was not pounded into them day after day. Consequently, many have no idea what the difference is between a comma and a semi-colon. This ignorance is one of the many banes of my existence, keeping me up at night seething with rage and wondering why¹ can't my lab partner write a decent sentence? Case in point: I once spent a full lab period replacing semi-colons with commas after seeing what someone in my bio lab group wrote up. Apparently, he felt that these two punctuation marks were interchangeable. I wanted to stab him in the face.

In high school, grammar was the basis for my freshman English teacher’s vendetta against me. On the one day that she touched upon diagramming sentences, I corrected her placement of a gerund, which cannot be treated as a regular noun. From that day on, she found every reason in life to give me detentions, hold me up between classes, and slowly destroy my soul. In spite of this, I prevailed, and I stand before you today as the bitter being that I was always meant to be. But I’m getting off topic now. Correcting that mistake was worth it. If I hadn’t pointed it out, I’m sure it would still eat at me today.

I don’t mean to say that I’m the greatest grammarian of all time. Far from it, but I have a solid understanding of the rules.² I’m sure there are grammatical errors in this post right now, but there is nothing so horrible so as to detract from my purpose. If you can’t correctly put sentences together, it doesn’t even matter what words you use.


¹ Oh, why?!
² Thank you, Mrs. Lange.

Feenin'

Yes, I know I just bought two pairs of shoes recently, but I needed these. The craving for shoes just doesn't go away until I pick up at least one pair of Nikes. It's my crack. I figure this makes sense, though. If you're feenin' for some crack, some meth might work out for a second, but it really comes down to getting that crack. The Penguins and the Pumas are like meth, and Nike is my crack. I can't live without it; I will sell VCRs and shit for $1.99 just to build up my money to get my next hit.

Nothing can stop me.

Introducing the Magic Hate Ball

There has been a serious decline in how angry I am at the world. This is unacceptable, and I am annoyed to the point of anger. See how easy it was to fix that deficiency? So I'm bringing out something I've had on the backburner for a while: the Magic Hate Ball. Occasionally, people will ask for my advice, and I am usually at a loss. I mean, if I was capable of identifying good life choices, wouldn't I be a nice, well-adjusted person instead of this smoldering volcano of bitterness, whose inactivity is occasionally interrupted by the spewing of molten crazy all over everything in its path? There is nothing about me that says:

Ask me to help! I'm cheerful and all that bullshit!

Despite this, every once in a while I'll receive a question from a member of my (imaginary) adoring public. Normally, I simply toss such inquiries into my imaginary trashcan, but after reconsideration, these can be used as excellent blog filler. Here's what I'm gonna do: I'll read the question, shake my magic hate ball, get its answer, then extrapolate upon said answer. So let's get on with the show:

Dear Magic Hate Ball,

I’ve recently become fascinated with Asian culture and I want to get a tattoo with Asian letters, most likely Chinese or Japanese. I want to honor my girlfriend and get a tattoo of her initials (H.A.G. fyi). The thing is: she doesn’t want to do the same for me no matter how much I insist. I mean, it’s only fair, right?

I Do Idolize Overwhelming Tats

And the Hate Ball says: My god, you're an idiot.

Dear IDIOT,

There are a number of problems with your letter. I’ll make this easier for everyone and just make a list:

1. I’m “guessing” that you’re not Asian, and you probably know, at most, one person of Asian descent, who must deal with your constant greetings of “Nihao!” every damned time they see you. In general, it just makes us uncomfortable, especially if we're not Chinese.
2. Here’s the dirty little secret: Asia is not a country, it’s a continent, dumbass. And if you do realize this, China and Japan aren’t the only ones there. Look at a fucking map for once.
3. There are no Chinese or Japanese “letters.” I’m guessing you want to have very complex, very “Asian” looking characters tattooed on your idiotic skin. Why don’t you find out what something constitutes before you have it permanently embedded into your skin?
4. Just because you want to make a bad decision, doesn’t mean your [soon-to-be-ex-]girlfriend should have to make the same one. Especially after the fact when you find out from the Chinese delivery guy that while your tattoo is an everlasting homage, it is not to your girlfriend, but fried bull testicles.

Part of me wants to recommend against getting this tattoo, as it will be an extraordinary exercise in ignorance and bad decision making. In addition to this, it creates a horrible domino effect in which other ignorant assholes will be impressed by the physical manifestation of your idiocy and acquire their own horrible tattoos. However, the larger part of me (I'd guess around 98%) recommends that you do make the investment and hopes that the result takes up a large portion of your body, thus making it impossible to hide your stupidity from the rest of the world.In conclusion, I suggest you get the tattoo, then continue to persuade your girlfriend to do the same. Soon, she’ll dump you, and you’ll just be that dumbass with “Fried Bull Testicles” or something equally idiotic on his torso with no girlfriend. Good Luck!

i write i

SRT #21

I'm at a loss for topics today, so I'm going to take this opportunity to make a very important Public Service Announcement. Click here to learn an important life lesson. Take heed, children. Take heed.

The Root of the Problem

I have an unhealthy addiction to shoes. In the past, when faced with a choice between shoes and food, I have chosen shoes at least 75% of the time. When these stretches of starvation are accompianied by constant trips to the mall or South Street, it's a wonder that I was never forced into some sort of eating disorder program. Case in point: my freshman year of college, I lost 10-15 pounds. For the average freshman entering school, you'd think this is a good thing, since it is, in effect, the anti-freshman fifteen. Unfortunately for me, this means I ended that year under 100 pounds. But it was worth it.

That school year I accumulated at least 20 pairs of shoes.

People often wonder what it is about shoes that I love, and in all honesty, I'm not really sure. What mostly confuses people is the type of shoes that I enjoy. Most girls are into the whole heels thing (a la Carrie Bradshaw). They do not float my boat. Yes, I do own a couple pairs of heels, but these are only worn when absolutely necessary. If I could wear Dunks to a wedding, I would; if I could get away with Air Forces at job interviews, there would be no other option for me. I would feel a sadness the likes of which the world has never seen if my shoes were somehow taken away from me. (I've designated which shoes are coming out with me in case of a fire.) The real question, or at least the question of the moment, is: Why do I love shoes so much?

Personally, I think it stems from the fact that my mom was a big fan of the Payless when I was a kid. I hated it. I thought their shoes were ugly, but couldn't exactly explain why, so I could never convince my mom to not get me shoes from there. I now realize that Payless simply holds the market for shitty fake-me-out shoes. Until I started high school, I was forced to subside on Payless shoes, and I am still bitter about it. Perhaps the reason for this bitterness is connected to the fact that I've gone to Catholic school since the first grade. Catholic school equals uniforms. The only thing unique about your uniform was your shoes. At my particular elementary/middle school, the rule was girls had white sneakers, and boys were to wear black ones. When my classmates all had the new Air Tempos, I had some horrible Payless knockoffs of Asics. I was deeply ashamed of my god awful shoes. And then I got to high school.

Again, in Catholic school, the most freedom we were allowed in dressing ourselves was via footwear. Unfortunately, sneakers were only allowed when the Fall/Spring uniform was in effect (August-September, April-June), but I used this time to its full potential. The summer before school started, I acquired my first pair of Nikes,* and an addiction to nourish through the ages was born. I was hopelessly anal about these shoes. If anyone so much as touched them, I would flip the fuck out. Few things would annoy me more than seeing someone else wearing the same shoes as me, but instead of them being well cared for, they would be in shambles. It made my heart cry. What matters is since the age of 14, I have never stopped loving shoes.

Everything else is a distant second.



* Brownie points if you can pick them out.

My Latest Conquests

Beautiful, aren't they?

SRT #20

The Devil's Latest Endeavor

Crocs are perhaps the ugliest footwear to ever arise in the world of man. What asshole decided these things were attractive? Is it really necessary to wear horrible plastic abominations on your feet for the sake of comfort? I own approximately 50 pairs of comfortable shoes and none of them are ugly. In fact, none of them look like their materials were outsourced by PlaySkool. It is quite possible to be comfortable in good shoes, so don't try to tell me that this is the only thing that works.

On another note, these demons are supposed to be anti-bacterial. Now, I'm all for that, but want to know another way to avoid the bacteria? Keep your fucking feet clean! Wear the right socks with the right shoes! You don't need to wear antibiotics on your body. What the goddamnedshit?!

The worst offence, in my mind, is when these are worn in the workplace. I'm not going to tell you what to wear in the privacy of your home, but don't hurt my eyes with these demons.* When was it appropriate for hideous things to be worn in the office? This is actually the reason I've decided to speak out against these eyesores. I saw approximately 5 thousand pairs of these things today. Now, I work in DC, in the area famed for housing the largest and most powerful lobbyists. There are important/powerful people all over the place. Why would anyone in their right mind wear crocs here? Why!?

In the words of the immortal Tim Gunn:

I hate crocs. May they please go away.

Amen.

* I'm a visual learner.

We Would Have Gotten Along

Johannes Brahms

24 Hours Later: SRT #19

I’ve had a strange urge to kill lately. Not in the psychopathic deranged killer way, but in the I need to defend the future of my species way. So I installed Halo: Combat Evolved on my PC last night. Yes, I know it’s an old game, but I enjoyed playing it for countless hours when it came out on the Xbox years ago. Thankfully, killing the Covenant satisfied my violent urges. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as sneaking up behind an Elite and bashing its (his?) skull in with a pistol. It makes my (cold, shriveled, blackened husk of a) heart smile.

On the downside, I really suck at this game now. I’m not saying that I was ever super good at the game, but I was decent. I could hold my own against the boys and was quite adept with the shotgun/assault rifle combination. I blame having to use an Xbox 360 controller now. Even when the smaller controllers came out for the Xbox, I always preferred using the original giant controller. On the new controller, the spacing is different, and there are no black and white buttons. Also, I spent a good 20 minutes of the game just testing out different settings for the buttons trying to remember which button did what on the Xbox.

Hopefully, I’ll get decent/good at this game again. At least until I’m struck with a new urge, such as the desire to rollerblade and vandalize public property.

He Speaks the Truth

So I'm back in a recently resurrected chat room to pass the time at work. I know the people in the room in real life, as we're all somehow connected to an org from my Drexel days. So I jump in on a recap of a recent party where someone says:

its not a drexel party until someone wakes up in a hospital

So true.

Campus is Tiny, Unsightly, or Both

Drexel's campus is on Post Secret this week. I'm not quite getting the secret though. It is someone talking to himself? Is he confident about his own future? Is he actually speaking to Drexel? (But who would be confident in Drexel's future? I'm waiting for the day that UPenn swallows it up and I can say I went to an Ivy League School.) Very curious.

SRT #18

If you recall, I had a list of topics to write about. Clearly, I have addressed none of these. Don't complain, just get over it. In all honesty, the more time that passes, the less likely I'll ever write about these things. Nothing of interest has happened lately, and I'm not quite sure if this is a good or bad thing. If this trend continues, I'll vote for bad, but as of this moment, I'm OK with it.

One day, I'll have something worth reading up here. In the meantime, I will continue to pretend to be productive, and I encourage you to do the same.

SRT #17.5

So I alluded to an event which reinforced my belief in karma on Tuesday, and I figure I might as well document said event. So I get the mail on Saturday and look through it, taking out things for me. This includes the usual things: bank statements, bills, and pre-approved credit card applications. However, there's something unexpected also: a greeting card sized envelope. This is strange as I don't usually get cards from people except for my birthday or Christmas. So I'm confused and proceed to open it.

Confirming my assumptions, it is a greeting card, but not fulfilling the usual greeting card goals, such as thank yous or invitations. Instead, it's a greeting card asking me out. I wanted to vomit. Now, this card is blank on the inside, so there is much writing space available. Tell me why fool filled up the entire card to the point where it spills over onto the back. Gross! There were so many wrong things happening in the card, which I will now list.

1. Fool didn't say who he was until the second "page" of the card.
2. It notes that he has seen me at church, but I always left the building right after mass, so he was never able to speak to me there. (Thank God!)
3. It notes my lack of wearing a wedding/engagement ring. This is especially disturbing that he was close enough to me at some point to note which fingers my rings are one. I typically wear three: two on my right (thumb and fourth finger) and one on my left (middle finger). Double vomit.
4. He apparently has seen my mom at prayer groups and holistic healing meetings. Triple vomit.
5. It invites me out for a lunch or (this is the good part) to get snacks and conversation. SNACKS! Are we in kindergarten? Do you plan on a pre- or post-recess event? Fool. Who says that?!
6. He says it seems like I "march to the beat of my own drummer." Quadruple vomit.

Perhaps you're wondering who would send such a card to me? I'll tell you who: a sad (he has to be at least) 30-year-old. Yes. I'm not saying that's really old. But it is for this. Also, I wouldn't be able to pick this fool out of a line up. I do know his sister in passing, but I have no idea who this fool is. Apparently, we all went to the same piano teacher years years years ago, but as he was at least seven years older than me, I still had no idea who he was. (But he apparently remembered me as a nine maybe ten-year-old. Infinite vomit.) According to the card, he is resuming masses at his own church so I can (hopefully) still attend my own in peace.

One of the more confusing aspects of this card is that there is nothing in my church demeanor that says: Come talk to me. I'm a nice, well-adjusted person. Quite the opposite. I generally have a surly expression on my face, which is played up even more when I'm in places I don't want to be, i.e. church. I've made a whole persona based on looking irritated and mean so that people don't bother me when I'm in no mood to be bothered. When I have been forced to interact with someone that doesn't know me at church, they usually express consternation and worry that I'm going to bite their heads off. Bottom line: I am not an inviting person.

"How does this relate to karma?" you ask while scratching your head in confusion. Oh, I will tell you. My senior year of college, a classmate and I always went to the same truck. I liked the truck for a number of reasons. The abundant supply of Snapple Apple and excellent gyros were at the top of the list. So the guy that took the orders began to develop quite the crush on my classmate.¹ Due to a sleepy mishap, he learned her name from me and began to (let's say) woo her. Now, this was infinately amusing on my part because I would continue to frequent his food truck, which was conveniently located right next to the closest entrance to a lecture hall. This culminated at Christmas where he sent her a card (via another classmate) begging for her to "give him a chance." A small part of me has never stopped laughing at this. On many occasions, I would bring up this love for her that transcended all boundaries. They could cook gyros and sandwiches until the rapture.

Unfortunately for the truck guy, my friend never again went back to that truck. Every time I ordered a gyro (extra cucumber sauce, no lettuce), I could see the pain deep within his eyes. Poor poor him.

So the point is, I took way too much amusement from this occurance. And God has decided to punish me by sending a creepy card my way. I get it, God. No more excessive laughter at another's predicament.² Of course, I'll probably relapse at some point, and God will have to send me another karmic sign, causing me to renounce such things again, rinse and repeat. Such is my life.


¹ Friend? I dont' know if calling someone who tries to sexually assult me in the quad is a friend, but that's a different issue.
² Reasonable laugher is a different story, however.

I Can't Stop Watching This

I can't stop watching this video. For a full minute and twenty-nine seconds, I like animals and have a strange desire to own one. And then I see the poopy stains and renege on that feeling. But still, if you subtract all the various secretions of animals, I would totally buy a puppy, let it grow up, sell it, then buy another puppy.

SRT #17

Over the weekend, I learned that karma is a bitch. I'm too sleepy right now to go into the details of the matter, but this is a vital lesson to spread throughout the land: If you take way too much amusement from something that has happened to someone else, karma will ensure that it happens to you in due course.

The Bullseye is Red

Dear Colleagues: Each of you will be receiving a Red Cross kit to be kept in your office in case of emergencies. The bag contains supplies that may be used in the event of an evacuation or if we are forced to "shelter in place." [You don't need to know where I work] will have supplemental supplies (food bars and water) available in the storage room. Please feel to add your own supplies/clothes and/or any medical supplies/prescriptions you may need in the event of an emergency. Thank you.

Is that not a scary e-mail to receive on a Monday morning? I think it is. This is probably the number one reason why it sucks to be in DC: the terrorists are coming for my ass. They're not shooting for the xenophobic hicks of Alabama, they're aiming for my ass. I just don't think the good citizens of Topeka, Kansas are in nearly as much danger. The irony is, I think that the people¹ of DC are of the more anti-war stance, while the Topekans would love to take over Iran.² If this is the case, why can't they just bomb the red states? The blue ones just want out.

Washington, DC has the lowest percentage of military recruits in the country. Doesn't it mean something that the home of the governent barely supports the current government's decisions? The part of the country that is most saturated by politics is disgusted with its current state. However, everyone else that's not in imminent danger is running around just asking for us to get bitch slapped by the rest of the world. This does not bode well for my safety.

In case of a terrorist attack, the Red Cross has provided me with Band-Aids and Aspirin.³ I'm really going to have to start carrying my knife again.

¹ Remember: politicians don't count as people. Not in the strictest sense of the word.

² At least when compared with each other. I have no desire to read up on the latest poll results right now. Also, for all I know, Topeka is a liberal enclave in the middle of a very red state. It just happened to be the first city I thought of in the midwest.

³ Well, I haven't received the kit yet, but I'm sure that's pretty much what's going to be in it.

God's Gift to Me

I love Ranch dressing. I have no idea what’s in it¹, but it’s delicious. For all my bitching about things in this world (i.e. heels, idiots, and fake-and-bakes, to name a few), God really pulled through with this ranch stuff. Unfortunately for me, it negates the healthiness of having a salad for lunch.

Yes, sports fans. I am having a salad for lunch. This is definitely not my usual fare. I am the carnivorous type. It’s not a real meal unless I have some sort of dead animal adorning my plate paired with some sort of carbohydrate. In many cases, I will have multiple sources of carbs. I regularly eat potatoes and rice within the same meal. Delicious!

Unfortunately for me, I no longer have the fast metabolism of my teenage years. Over the past four years, my weight has been slowly creeping upwards. This angers me because I refuse to buy bigger pants. I still remember the days of size 0 jeans. Now, I’m up to a size 4. I’m not saying that a size 4 qualifies as fat, but having to buy a whole new set of clothes to accommodate excess fat would suck.² Hence, my decision to have a salad for lunch was wrought. Despite this seemingly healthy decision, I slathered heaps upon heaps of ranch dressing on the unsuspecting pile of vegetables, which subsequently drowned amidst an ocean of lipids.

Ranch dressing is worth being fat for.


¹ Pre-Wikipedia entry, that is.
² And not in a good way.

SRT #16

So I was going to Quiznos the other day to grab a Steakhouse Beefdip Sandwich (delicious!), and on the way I pass this dude brushing his teeth. On the sidewalk. While walking! Every few steps he would stop and spit. A very curious* thing to see at 1:00 PM in the nice part of DC. Now, if this was some random homeless person, I wouldn't be fazed in the slightest. But this was clearly some sort of Power Suit walking somewhere with determination. Really, you're doing the power walk to what I can only assume is an important event. It's important enough that you have a total disregard for pushing people out of the way, but not so important that you couldn't brush your teeth before you left home? What is that?


* Curious indeed.

Yes, Mr. Weingarten, I Do Want Your Advice

I like to keep up with my Washington Post columns, and this week's Post Magazine has an excellent one from Gene Weingarten. This is for everyone in their twenties who's a little bit lost. I've included some excerpts below, and the entire column can be found here.

For the rest of your life, you will remain locked into whatever music you currently listen to. Trust me, it happens to everyone. It happened to me. Given the quality of popular music of the 1960s, I am fine. Given the quality of popular music of the 2000s, you are toast. Suggestion: Get a job as a jackhammer operator, wear no ear protection, go deaf. At least your taste in music won't make you a source of contemptuous merriment to your children, the way my parents were to me.

Cleanse your language of certain callow affectations common to your generation, for they will not serve you well later in life. I, for example, employed the word "groovy" well into my twenties, until I once used it as a panelist on a TV political talk show, while discussing the sociopolitical ramifications of a gubernatorial veto. The studio audience actually laughed. In your case, when being interviewed about your nomination to the U.S. Supreme Court, you do not want to say, "I was, like, 'No way,' and the president goes, 'For realz, yo,' and . . ."

Practice preemptive temperance. You know how you can get completely wasted one night, and the next morning you're okay? Well, one day, that won't be true anymore. And I mean "one day." This change will occur, literally, overnight, and you will discover it too late, as I did, when I arrived for work unshaven, with mismatched shoes, on a Saturday.

This is vital information for our generation. If you decide to read the entire article, you'll find that much of the advice is specific to men, so guys, take heed and keep that prostate gland in control. A Wal-Mart was not meant to occupy the same space as a walnut.

SRT #15

So there have been a number of developments in life which I suppose I could write about, but haven't had the desire to. I really need to be in the correct mindset to concoct an entertaining entry, but it just hasn't happened yet. So here are some previews for the next few entries:

• I started a new job last Monday.
• The future leaving of this job.
• The wedding is finally over. (Not mine,* but the friend for whom we went to Miami for.)
• A sudden upshot in insecurity.

So as you can see, I do have things to write about, and one day, I'll get to it.

Just not today.

* Barf.

Addendum

I came across something on Overheard in New York that almost made me spit my drink out onto my monitor: You've had way too much cock in your mouth to be vegan. Super funny, I know. Just wanted to share that.

SRT #14

So I was having a discussion with a friend of mine about relationships in general, and somehow, I reached the conclusion that you can judge a person by his/her musical tastes. The problem is finding out exactly what music people like, including selections that they're ashamed of liking: the secret playlist. For example, in high school I was very into the radio-friendly hip-hop/R&B. No one knew of my secret love for The Temptations for fear of being marked corny. Now, however, I'm quite proud of my random musical tastes. So what does this matter?

During the aformentioned conversation, I was accused of having a hidden mushy side. (I have a hard outer shell with no creamy center. Very unlike a 3 Musketeers Bar.*) Much to my dismay, this is true. I've realized that as I became more open about my musical choices, the more obvious my hidden mushiness became. Honestly, what pure hardass likes Journey?

This theory of music reflecting character can be applied to a variety of situations. Ladies, if your seemingly sensitive boyfriend can't hear enough of "Smack My Bitch Up," something may be a little off. Guys, if your girl has an unhealthy obsession with Melissa Etheridge you're either in for the greatest birthday present ever, or you're getting dumped for the local Birkenstock salesgirl.

My conclusion: before you get serious, take a sneek peek at that iPod.


* While I may never develop the soft creamy center of a 3 Musketeers, I definately have a more nougat-y center, not unlike a Snickers.

And I Just Can't Hide It

Do you ever feel like the older you get, the less excited you get over anything and everything? I remember when I was a child, I would get excited over the typical things: summer vacation, Christmas, birthdays, etc. While I wouldn't get as agitated as my peers, I did look forward to these events. Instead of having a completely straight face, I would occasionally have a bit of an upturn at the corners of my mouth. It was a mere whisper of a smile, but it was still there.

For example, when I was a junior in high school, I went island hopping amongst the Greek Islands. I was super-excited. On the inside. On the outside, I was the picture of nonchalance. A friend of mine was perplexed with my seeming lack of excitement about this trip a few days beforehand. The point is, even though I rarely demonstrate excitement, I do feel it. And I really did feel it for that trip. And for birthdays. And for vacations. And for all those things people usually get excited about.

In the last couple of years, however, I haven't had anything to look forward to. My birthday came and went, and while I did celebrate it, I didn't really care. Christmas: not a big deal to me. I'm sorry, but I just can't bring myself to care. The closest I get to excitement is vaguely looking forward to something, but even then, it comes and goes. I look forward to certain things, like parties, but in all honesty, I could take it or leave it. Shit just doesn't seem to matter to me as much anymore. It kinda makes me sad.

Right now, however, I think I've recaptured that feeling of excitement/anticipation you get when you're really looking forward to something. I'm not gonna say why right now, as it will get around soon enough.

So now you're wondering: if I want to keep the reason for the excitement on the downlow, why even write about it? The fact that I'm truly excited about anything is news enough for me. I didn't get excited over going to college, graduation from said collage, the first job, the second job, getting my driver's license, and all other such events. (Not in this order.) But I am undoubtedly excited about this.

I'm so excited.

SRT¹ #13

So I was watching Sex & the City today, and I was thinking about how every girl I know associates herself with one of the main characters. It seems as though almost everyone wants to be Carrie. I always figured that was because she seemed to be the least slutty compared to the other three. If you disregard all characteristics and go by sheer numbers, it's true. From what I understand, it's mostly because of Sarah Jessica Parker's unwillingness to go as far as the other actresses with the more explicit scenes.

Here's the thing. Carrie is super annoying. It didn't really sink in with me while the series was still in production. At that time, I just wanted to know what happened, and the only personalites I really paid any attention to were those of Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte (mostly because they actually had personalities). On rewatching episodes, I found Carrie to be more and more annoying. In a show where the audience sides with the women by default, I found myself on the sides of the men she was dating.

For example, in that episode where she follows Mr. Big and his mother to church to finagle a meeting with the mother, I wanted to shake her horsey head until it popped off. I never understood the desire to meet someone else's parents. It grosses me out. For me, no one's getting introduced to the parents until there's some sort of engagement,² and even then, I'd still put it off as long as possible.

This is just one of many things that made me grow to hate her. Another is that incessant shrieking at everything in life. I assure you, there are more reasons than this for my annoyance with Carrie, but these are the only ones I felt like mentioning.

With this in mind, I ask you people who think they're the Carrie of their circles of friends: why do you want to be the Carrie? Are you a selfish, high-maintenance, shrieking shrew of a narcissist? If not, do you want to be? And if so, why? If you happen to catch the reruns of Sex and the City or have access to the DVDs, take a look at her and contemplate who she is. Don't be that person.


¹ "Super Random Tuesday" was getting too annoying to type in full each week, so it's been redubbed "SRT." Also, I am fully aware that it is now officially Wednesday (at least it is on the east coast), but I haven't been to bed yet, so in all practicality, it's still Tuesday to me. Get over it.

² Also gross. Ugh. Commitment.

You're Not That Cool

One Thousandth of My Hatred

Why do people insist on acting cooler than they really are? There is no real advantage in doing so. In fact, it makes me hate people that do it. I don’t mean hate as in: I hate when the candy store doesn’t have my favorite flavor of Jelly Belly. This is what I mean: I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. If it wouldn’t land my ass in jail, I would personally rip the aorta from of each of these people with my bare hands, and then mock them by turning it into some sort of finger puppet.

First, let’s define the action of acting cooler than you really are. One who does this abides by the following protocols:

• Purposely seeks out what is currently being labeled as “cool,” irregardless of who is setting these standards.
• Attempts to follow these trends in spite of their natural tendencies/limitations
• Achieves this attempt in a manner in which it annoys much of the population.
• Successfully causes such distaste with the “cool” behavior that those who actually enjoy such things are put off from them.

Hopefully, you will soon be able to recognize such behavior in those surrounding you. Unfortunately, I will not teach you how to rip aortas from people’s chest cavities. (You’ll need to do that on your own time.)

For the purpose of the argument against acting super-cool, I am going to focus on people who are over the age of twenty. While this behavior does inspire hatred for those under twenty, the immediate results of such actions are vastly different. For twenty year olds, I’m going to assume that they’ve finished high school, and have either been in the work force or in college for a year or two. This time period should have provided enough life experience to stop acting like a child and be able to at least fake adulthood. In addition to that, you would think that someone at that age would be able to make their own decisions as to what appeals to them, irregardless of who is touting what is to be labeled “cool” or “uncool.” At this age, they really should just know better.

The best way to convey why these people are to be hated is through example, so here's one to get you started:

The Wannabe Urbanite

If you’re from a suburban gated community where each house has at least one BMW/Mercedes Benz/Lexus in the driveway (‘cause the nicer cars are in the garage), don’t act as though you’re from the ghetto. It’s unbecoming on you, and frankly, you can’t pull it off. Here’s what I think happens in your mind:

• “Hey! Look at what they’re wearing on that horrible/mindless/void of intelligent thought show: TRL! Who cares how ridiculous it looks?! I’m going to do the same! Listen to their unnatural use of urban slang! They gotz mad skillz, dawwwg!
• “I’m gonna talk like that no matter how wack I sound! For shizzle my dizzle. Screw my $150,000 educizzle! I’m straight street(izzle).”
  

Personally, this is what I generally believe people are thinking when they make such poor life decisions. Unfortunately, this internal monologue is only half of the problem. The rest is executed as punishment to the rest of the populace, which is thinking:

• “Look at that chick talking like a fool. Making the rest of us (with $150,000 educations) look like idiots.” OR “Why does she keep quacking? OH! She’s trying to say wack! Dumbass bitch.”
• “That bitch is not wearing the same thing as me. I’m never wearing this outfit again. Who cares that it actually looks good on me and makes her look like a Stomp reject? She’s tainted these clothes forever.

Are you following my logic here? Not only have these girls perverted urban style and culture, they have successfully ruined said practices for others. It is one thing to keep up with the times, it’s quite another to spoil it for everyone else that it actually does work for.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re trying to do when you act cooler than you really are. It all comes down to this: There’s a reason most of us don’t pay attention to you, don’t try to attract it by acting like an asshole. When it comes down to it, you’re a show-off. And nobody likes a show-off.

Super Random Tuesday #12

So I was cleaning my room the other day (a super random occurrence itself) and I found a bunch of stuff that I forgot existed. Nothing else random has popped into my head, so we’re just gonna follow through with this.

This is a Mokona keychain I think I got in maybe…1996? ’97? Something like that. But it really is the most adorable thing in life. And useful! This thing can generate anything you need from that jewel thing on its face. Hungry? It can make sandwiches. Tired? It’ll pop out a hotel! If only it existed in real life and not the crazy world of anime.

Hey kids? Remember this crazy contraption? It played “tapes” and could tune into the radio without any extra attachments? Yes, I know that this is before a lot of your times, so you need to understand that many of us in this world never heard of an mp3 until we were 14. Crazy, isn’t it? Here’s another bizarre aspect of this ancient version of the iPod: it uses batteries. None of that rechargeable shit. I know what you’re thinking: How did you live in those days? Those things can only hold like what? 100? 200 songs? I’m sorry to say, kids, that these can only play one tape at a time. So your audio storage was limited by the tapes. (Yes, I know they’re not sticky in any fashion, but that’s what they’re called. Tapes!) Well, how much did each tape hold, you ask. Perhaps 75 songs? Oh, child, no. We were not so lucky. Generally, if you made your own tape (the amazing, the beautiful, the meaningful mixtape), you could record around 90 minutes total. That’s right, kids! A whopping hour and a half of music! Appreciate those 60 Gig iPods! I used to lug around a backpack full of tapes to keep myself happy!*

Remember when these things were the shit? If only they would make a comeback as the new/old hotness. I’d be prepared.

So that’s it for today, kids. Here’s a summary for today’s lesson: Some things about anime should be real, appreciate your tiny little things that hold five thousand billion songs, and those vaguely Asian bracelets need to make a comeback.

* Coincidentally, I would do so whilst walking barefoot to school across razor blade roads and then through iodine rivers.

Super Random Tuesday #11

Where has the magic gone?

Have you noticed a marked decline in the quality of Disney movies? Because I definitely have. Recall the magic of such films as Aladdin and The Little Mermaid. Compare this to the excrement of Hercules and The Lion King ½. It makes my heart sad. It really does. I still know the lyrics to such gems as "A Whole New World," "Hakuna Matata," and "Be Our Guest." Can anyone say the same for "Listen with Your Heart" or "A Girl Worth Fighting For?." Really now, does anyone give a fuck about what happened to Pocahontas according to the warped Disney version? (From what I understand, John Smith was quite the jerk.)

Personally, Disney’s only saving grace is its association with Pixar. Unfortunately, this doesn't excuse its endorsement of shit. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Pixar moves (Finding Nemo is my favorite), but there’s something to be said for a quality traditionally animated movie.

Orange is Not the New Tan

When did this become attractive? That shit is gross! Last I checked, orange was not a naturally occurring skin color. I know that people want to be eye-catching to a certain extent, but this is not the way to go about it. Car accidents are also eye-catching, but those are never good things. And like car accidents, it’s hard to tear my eyes away from the horrifying scene.

Clearly, the sun is not responsible for this “tan.” It’s not even right to call it a tan, so I’ll start again.

Clearly, the sun is not responsible for this “orange.” Really, only fruit should be anywhere close to this shade. It amuses me because some unknown spector of the universe has enacted some sort of revenge on her. Since she’s too good for a natural looking tan gained from appropriate amounts of exposure to the sun, she is now the actual color of the sun:

CRAZY LADY: I don’t have time to get a real tan, I want a more concentrated form of skin cancer. Bring on the tanning bed!
SUN: Don’t have time for ME!? We’ll see where that gets you:

CRAZY LADY: At least I’m not pasty anymore.

Remember, there are really only five basic colors of people: black, white, red, yellow, brown. No where is orange on that list. Stop defying nature. It’s not cute.

Miami: Part III

Now for the exciting conclusion of the Miami weekend! Actually, not so exciting, but it's what happened. I'm sure I could have made this a funnier read somehow, but I think that can only be achieved through vocal inflections and whatnot, so you’ll just have to imagine them.

SATURDAY

Even though we didn’t get to sleep until around 5:00 AM, our room wakes up around 10:00. We only have one full day in Miami, and we’re not about to waste it in bed. When we wake up, we call the other room to see if they’re awake. No one answers, so we leave a message saying what we’re doing. Once we’re ready to head out around 11:00, we call again with no answers. However, right outside the hotel, we find the BTB finishing up a cigarette, and she tells us that they just woke up a little while ago and they’re watching the Disney Channel. The Disney Channel! Are you serious?!

After learning this information, we head out to Nikki Beach. Jack drove us there, dropped us off, then went home, so it’s just me, Jane, and Jill. It’s a really nice place, but it’s too bad that they’re big party night is on Sundays, so we miss out on that. The lunch is pretty good, and we chill out with Coronas and Sangria. During lunch, we text the Moms again to see what’s up. No answer. So we text again actually asking for an answer, which we do receive this time. They’re eating lunch at some other place which is fine with us. So now the plan is for them to meet us at Nikki Beach for drinks (Mojitos by the pitcher) and then head to the beach. An hour and a half later, we find out where they are: still eating lunch, and they’re going to drop off their leftovers at the hotel. Are you serious?! Still with the leftovers?!

At this point, we just head to the beach and I get in a quick nap. An hour later, around 3:00, they show up, which is fine by us, except that we’re hot and the inner darkness is starting to show on our skin. Now, I’m perfectly happy to have a nice tan. In fact, I welcome it with open arms, but I don’t need to change races or look like a leather baseball mitt some poor kid left outside in the sun for the entire summer. So we stick around for another hour. At 4:00 we tell them that we’re going to head back to the hotel and shower and handle all of that. We ask what they want to do for dinner, here is their answer: We might just eat leftovers. Are you serious?! Leftovers!? They also note that they’re probably going to take naps when they get back to the hotel. Fine with us, we find out what we need to know, and we head back.

After another series of phone calls, we get a timeline. Apparently, they’ve decided not to eat their leftovers and want a new dinner that night. We make plans to meet up with Jack for drinks around 6:30 so that we can get to dinner around 8:00. Strangely enough, he’s early, so we hurry up a bit and get out around 6:15. Now, we told the Moms exactly what we were going to do: go back to the hotel, shower, change, meet up with Jack for drinks at 6:30, then have dinner at 8:00. Jack would be gone after drinks, and had no effect on our plans. Really, even if we weren’t meeting up with him, we weren’t about to sit in the hotel room waiting for them to get ready. We would have gone somewhere anyways.

So we’re walking towards dinner with Jack (he’s going to leave once we get there), and we’re a block behind the Moms. Normally, we’re probably be about even with them, but I was wearing my crazy heels, and my feet hurt retroactively from the previous night, when I also wore madness, so I was not the quickest walker in life. (This will be discussed at a later date.) We finally get to the restaurant, and for unforseen circumstances, we can’t eat there. So we start to walk towards Sushi Samba. On the way, we pass this place called Santo. The Nazi looks at the menu, which is posted outside, and decides to eat there. The entrees cost $30-45 and the appetizers are in the $10-15 range. Given that this is pretty pricey, Jane suggests that we walk the one extra block to Sushi Samba, which isn’t a cheap place, but is more reasonable that this. The Nazi insists on this place, declares that she’s hungry and is acting like a two year old. Fine.

We get a table and try to decide what to order. The three of us (me, Jane, and Jill) get the filet mignon, since we figure we might as well get something good. The Nazi and MOH only order appetizers, saying that everything is too expensive. At this point I’d like to remind everyone of the fact that the Nazi wanted us to pay for all of the BTB’s expenses, yet she did want to spend the money for an entrée. As an additional note, you will remember that she insisted that we eat at this place even after looking at the menu and all of the prices. Clearly, she’s not the brightest crayon in the box. Her appetizer consists of one cigar-sized eggroll, and the MOH has five good sized dumplings. They looked so hungry I wanted to laugh. My steak is delicious. I could barely finish it I was so full. I even had some leftover, but please note that I didn't take it back to the hotel.

We finished dinner around 10:00, and we had plans to head out to Mansion, which, apparently, is the place to be. Here’s the deal with Mansion: to get a table, you’ll need to buy a $100 bottle or pay a cover of $15. The Nazi is insistent on us getting a table, so that would be $20 for each of us (minus the BTB) to get the table. That’s not bad, especially since we originally thought we’d have to buy the $280 bottle. Also, the tables don’t come into effect until midnight, so we have a good hour and a half to two hours to wait for that. When we get to Mansion, the line is pretty short, so Jane suggests that we just wait in the line and see what happens first: midnight for the table, or getting in through the line.

Unfortunately, the Hustler store is right across the street, and the Nazi insists that we go in. So we do and have a good laugh at some of the stuff. While this is happening though, the line decides to grow. Very quickly. So Jill and Jane cross the street to grab a spot in line. In the meantime, I stick around the Hustler store to help hurry things along. Now, I’m no prude, but it’s kind of gross for me to be hearing about mothers’ sex lives.¹ Eventually, they get through the full tour, make a couple of purchases, and we’re out of there. After some confusion, the Nazi manages to get us in for free.²

Mansion goes pretty well. Again, we bought rounds for everyone, but the Nazi only bought rounds for the Moms. At this point we just ignore it and move on with the night. After Mansion, we go to a place rumored to have male strippers, but that doesn’t come through, and we head back to the hotel. That’s pretty much the end of Saturday.

¹ Especially when I’ve known one of them since I was six. You know how when you know someone for such a long time, they’re always at a certain age for you, no matter what happens? Well, she’s about sixteen in my head. So I’m kind of grossed out.

² Even though she’s annoying/stupid, I give her props for this. She’s quite good to have around for things you need to get done immediately. For example, the previous night, she managed to finagle a free bottle of champagne from the bartender.

ANOTHER ISSUE

The following section deals with both Friday and Saturday, but it would be too confusing to deal with this at the same time as everything else. The separation of the two groups was blamed on Jack. The accusation occurred while the BTB and I were a bit behind everyone else while walking towards Sushi Samba. Apparently, the Nazi felt like Jack was the only reason for everything. Because of this, she was also placing blame on Jill, moreso than on Jane or me. I was told about this right after we ordered at Santo, when Jill said she wanted to go outside for some air for a moment. She was quite ready to throw down some cash and go back to the hotel. After some reasoning and dealing with crying (so not my scene), I got her to come back into the restaurant.

Here’s the thing: Jack had no effect on any plans that we had. He didn’t make us late for anything. We weren’t forced to change anything because he didn’t like a place or he couldn’t get in. Everywhere we went (when he was around) he just followed us around. Basically, Jack and Jill are being blamed for the bumpiness of the trip simply because a boy is present for part of the time.

On the other hand, when the Nazi visited her aunt, it made her pretty late and we were forced to adjust all of our plans in waiting for her. This period (three hours) of waiting also influenced our decision to just get ready whenever we woke up and then meet up with the Moms later at the beach. We weren’t about to sit in the hotel waiting for another three hours while they watched the Disney channel.

CONCLUSION

I’ll say that I did have fun in Miami. When tension was being ignored it was quite the good time. Also, it was especially fun at Nikki Beach. Is it bad that the most fun was had when none of the Moms were present? (I don’t really care.) Was it worth the hundreds of dollars? I’m going to have to say no. If I spend $700 on a weekend, I expect everything to go well, or at least better than this. Now, if this was just the first two days of a longer trip, I’m sure things would have worked out much better.³

Here’s what I’ve learned:

• Mixing groups of friends is hard. But if you’re going to attempt it, be the bridge. The BTB didn’t do anything to keep everyone together, so it was natural for the groups to split.
• Keep the lateness to a minimum. A few minutes is fine, three hours is obscene.
• Heels are ridiculous.

³ Also, saving (certain) leftovers would make sense on a longer trip.