Ok, so I just snarfed

You all must go watch this. NOW.

//These shoes are mine, bitch

Things we're going to leave out of the weekly parental phone call #1

Milk decomposes. Rather rapidly, actually.

I'd rather not get into it, and trust me, you probably don't want to know, but henceforth, let it be known:

Milk decomposes.

Ergonomics

We have a very nice, spacious library with study rooms right out of Hogwarts.

There are eight study lounges in this building, two of which are on this floor.

I have a rather organized (for now) desk with a practically comfortable chair.

So why am I doing my Spanish homework sprawled on the floor in someone else's room?

What I just emailed to my floor

FOUND: One slightly bedraggled octopus in a dashing shade of lavender. Answers to the name of "Ollie" and seems to enjoy hanging out on top of shower drains. If you believe this to be your octopus, please come to room W303 to identify him.
/dork

Daily Revelations

Even though my body wash smells like yummy toasted vanilla and sugar, it still tastes like soap.

Yes, I checked.

The fun part about being me is that I get to experience at least one of these exciting discoveries EVERY DAY!

That was awkward

I would just like to point out that it's before 9 am and I'm a college student. Ow.

I had the pleasure of hauling myself out of bed at 7:20 this morning in order to schlep over to the Registrar's office. (No, actually, I didn't bother to change out of my pajamas, but thanks for asking.) I had to do so because "by a random process," I was part of a "small group of students" wo didn't get into any of my seminar choices. I love you too, Registrar. So, most of the cool-sounding-slash-taught-by-a-prof-with-a-good-reputation seminars were full. There was, however, ONE space left in a decent class, which also had the bonus of being at a decent hour. (2 in the afternoon :D) I assumed that more than one of us "lucky" students would come to the same conclusion, so I, in my usual obsessive compulsive manner, decided to chill on the steps of the building for half an hour before the office opened.

Yes, it was cold. I hate all of you.

So, I'm hanging out. 7:40. 7:50. 7:55. Ok, self. That was a little over the top. No one else is here! You could have SLEPT MORE.

But.

At 7:56, someone else showed up.

"Hey."

Yawn "Hey."

He sits down. "So, are you here to fix your seminar?"

"Yup."

"Yeah, me too." Shakes his head. "I got here early because the one I want only has one space left." Looks at me suspicioiusly. "Do you know if it's first come, first serve?"

Me, slighly squeaky: "I guess?"

AWKWARD.

Eventually, they did open the office and hell yes I was first. Got assigned, got the confirmation printout, and as I was leaving, heard a certain person inquire in a not-too-low voice, "What do you MEAN it's just been filled?!?"

Ok, so yeah, my avoiding-confrontation-self ran out the back door. I am SO COOL.

But I got the seminar, bitch.

I'm sorry, but we're just too awesome

OHMYGODCOLLEGEMYFLOORISAMAZINGANDIDON'THAVEANYTIME
TODOANYTHINGBECAUSEWEKEEPHAVINGDANCEPARTIESWHICH
COULDBEAPROBLEMWHENWEHAVECLASSESBUTOKBREATHING.

*inhale*

Quote of the day:

One second you're sniffing dryer sheets, the next you're doing lines of detergent in a dark alley at 3am.

Let's picture the miniature angel-me and devil-me

So, everyone at college seems really cool. Friendly, well-spoken, etc. (The father has designated most of them as "kids he would hire," an expression that annoys me to no end.)

But anyway. The hopeful part of me wants to believe that everyone can GET OVER high school clique Mean-Girls-ness and just be cool. The cynical part of me, having observed high-school-like behavior in "adults" WELL out of college believes that this is a temporary period of openness for everyone to establish the social structure and that it will come to an abrupt end.

We'll see. Or we could let the hovering angel and devil over my shoulder duke it out.

(Except I think the devil-girl is going to win because she has kickass boots.)

By Popular Demand

Given that one hundred percent of the current audience has asked for this to be reposted, I have obliged.

(Let’s all take a moment here and imagine that one hundred percent refers to an impressive unified coalition of thousands of far-flung readers instead of, um, two.)

Anyway: THE PICKLE STORY.

So. It's the week before finals. I have a shitload of work, so naturally, I've just spent the past hour reading about how to punch holes in quarters to confuse vending machines. I rule. In hopes of getting something done (HA), I decided that I needed an energy boost. As I'm already caffeinated well beyond any kind of legal or physical limit, I went for FOOD. My tongue, which was being subjected to the GROSSLY OVERSWEET HELL that is "Orbit Original Flavor" gum which I bought in a huge bulk pack in Costco without realizing that it was puke-inducing, so now I have to finish the pack, PLEASE KIll ME, that tongue flatly refused to eat anything sweet. And we have chips! Chips which are salty and crunchy and yummy and..deep fried. Right.

Ok, we ALSO HAVE PICKLES. Which have lots of sodium, but NO CALORIES!!! Really! It says "0" right there on the label, because cucumbers are one of those fake vegetables that are mostly water and aren't actually good for you, especially after they've sat in a vat of brine, but HEY NO CALORIES!

But first, ladies and gentlemen, before I could enjoy a crunchy pickle (and think of some Freudian imagery that I just got out of my head, THANKS A LOT ENGLISH CLASS), first, I had to face...the unopened pickle jar. Well. I don't know why pickle-jar-ers are still in the pickle-jarring business, because they could easily switch over to making and sealing DIAMOND VAULTS, because DEAR GOD, IS THERE A BLACK HOLE INSIDE CREATING THE VACUUM? Egad.

I attempt to open the pickle jar with my bare hands.
I attempt to open the pickle jar with my bare hands AND while making an intense face.
I naively attempt to use the jar-opener thing in the back of the kitchen drawer that LOOKS so much like it will work and I WANT it to work so badly, but it just kind of scrapes across the jar lid and then goes back in the drawer and MOCKS ME.
I run hot water over the jar, because I AM GOOD AT SCIENCE and the metal lid should expand when it gets hot.
I almost drop the jar because it's slippery when wet.

At this point, I was ready to admit defeat, and the thought flickered across my mind that I could go write a post about how I just lost to a pickle jar. I believe at this point the caffeine kicked in.
What? Lost to a pickle jar? I'LL BE DAMNED BEFORE I ADMIT THAT I LOST TO A PICKLE JAR! NO PICKLE JAR IS GOING TO BRING ME DOWN!

And armed with a crazed sense of determination that only the truly sleep-deprived and then caffeinated can understand, I fought the pickle jar. Bare handed. Whacked the shit out of the lid with a knife. Bare handed again. Hand cramping up, just a little more pressure, ow...did it move?

OH IT MOVED. And the seal was open and the jar made a satisfying pop, and I ate a pickle.

It was then that I realized that they were the kind of pickles that I don't like.

How to buy Jeans

1. Examine self in mirror to determine degree of bootyliciousness.

2. If low, proceed to step 3. If high, proceed to step 7.

3. Walk into store.

4. Choose pair of pants.

5. Try on (optional).

6. Repeat as necessary.

------------------------------------------------

7. Consider buying a skirt instead?

8. Are you sure? They can be very flattering…

9. Or how about sweatpants? No? Ok……….

10. Find area with multiple stores in close proximity. (Malls can be nauseating, but fit requirement.)

11. Enter store.

12. See cute pair of pants.

13. Attempt to guess size in said pair. Mentally thank whoever came up with the sizing system used for women’s clothes. We wouldn’t want to use MEASURMENTS like men or anything.

14. Wind up at dressing room with 8 pairs of pants in varying sizes.

15. Try on first pair of pants, if “try on” means succesfully fit little toe into.

16. Put on next pair. Lose self in extra fabric.

17. After long and intense battle, put on next pair. The waist fits…Curse degree of bootylisciousness and Italian ancestry.

18. Try next pair. Immediately hitch up, because either your ass is too big (likely) or your waist is too small.

19. Wind up with huge pile of rejected pants.

20. Fume in general direction of pile

21. Feel ashamed at being so owned by inanimate objects.

22. Repeat at nine stores.

23. Drag exhausted self into Gap.

24. Burst into HALLELUJAH CHORUS because they HAVE MULTIPLE CUTS OF JEANS!!

25. Select “Curvy” jeans.

26. Host wild rave in dressing room upon discovering that they fit.

27. Try on EXACT SAME PAIR OF PANTS in different wash.

28. Have argument with the two pairs of jeans. Insist that they are the same size and style. HOW COULD COLOR HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT?

29. Lose argument.

30. Give up, purchase three pairs of the other jeans that fit.

31. Become rich and famous, hire personal tailor, bitch-slap fashion designers