It doesn't seem to have gotten away from you. Yet.

You are everything I am not. You paint your nails. You own pearls. You wear argyle non-ironically.

You study.

But we both know (pepperidgefarmwhitesandwichbreadequals65times2equals130)plus(3ozbakedturkey
equals125)equals255

Please. Please be careful.

Lord knows I am not.

/thereisnoneedforcalculationwhenyoucanresetitbacktozero

I am never getting hired by anyone

Still full of inside jokes, but hopefully sounds less like a 13-year-old girl's Xanga than this thing does.

How the fuck do I get into these situations?

I really need to quit my stupid, unpaid job.

But I need to talk to someone about it first.

My friend, the person I would go to to talk to about something like this, is my boss at the job.

fmylife

Dear the Women and Gender Studies Department,

I wrote that as a joke.

Please don't give me an A.

It hurts me.

Thanks for the GPA boost,
Me

Google StreetView

just freaked me THE FUCK out.

Quería un bocadillo de tortilla de calabacín para llevar por favor.

*snort*

Imagine you own a theme park. It's a very successful (albeit a tad tacky) park. It happens to contain Superman: Ride of Steel, which is the greatest roller coaster IN THE HISTORY OF TIME, and has won the Golden Ticket Awards (the Oscars of the Amusement Park Industry) for the last three years running.

What do you do with your lovely award-winning much-adored coaster?

Apparently YOU FUCK WITH IT.

Superman is NOT PURPLE. New trains CHANGE THE RIDE. And if you enclose the lift hill and add *fire oooh shiny stuff* I will personally hate you for the rest of my life.
DO NOT FUCK WITH MY COASTER.

Is this real life?

Mis mejores poemes

My best poems
Were only read by one person
They are some silly cards
With much love inside
Spelling errors
And hints of longing

My best poems
Are not such, they are letters
That I write because this,
This I cannot speak
Because always he is far
Like everything good
Like everything that we value
Like god

Like the sea
I am from Casitilla and I have
A thistle for a soul
But I want to have an olive in my voice
I am from dry Castilla
I am Spanish earth
But I want to have my love in my love
It is almost funny to say this, LOVE, at this late time
LOVE in this era of companies and committees,
But I say LOVE LOVE I know what I say
—My best poems are letters that I have cried—
A poem is written
A letter is cried
A night can give birth
I have given birth and I have stolen things
—I have done a little of everything
But my best line…
Is a telegram

~Gloria Fuertes

I have never understood why it makes them so angry that somewhere, two people might be happy.

NOTICE

I have a huuuuuuuuuuuge girlcrush on my Spanish prof.

IF I start getting weird let me know.

you know what's really fucking annoying?

getting a "hey, i just read your story and it was SIIIIIICK" email from your editor as you are in the middle of typing out your resignation.

/such a waste of a polite resignation letter

La reina

Sometimes, Madonna makes me wish I'd been born earlier.

Ce n'est pas une sororité

When I was rushing, I met eight thousand smart women pretending to be sorority Barbies, which, in my opinion, is worse than actually being the sorority Barbie. I also met this wack Australian girl.

That was a good thing.

>Date: 19 Jan 2009 22:04:02 -0500
>From: Awesome Australian Girl
>Subject: read if you can be bothered. otherwise ignore.
>To: sigmadelta@Mac

Ok, so I'm bored, and Jo just did this, and I thought it was a great idea. So I will ignore the fact that no body expressed any interest whatsoever in the little details of the land down under, and regale you with them anyway. If you actually have a life, unlike me, please feel free to ignore this and get on with it.


CURRENCY: dollars. Currently trading at about 66 US cents. This year's been crazy though - in June it got up to 98.5 cents and in late August it hit 45 cents. Notes (we don't call them bills) are also a lot more colourful than in America, and are made of plastic, so if you leave them in your boardshorts pocket and go swimming, you're golden. Also, we have $1 and $2 coins, and we got rid of 1c and 2c coins about a decade ago.

LANGUAGE: English. Like British English (same spellings and all that), but with a funny accent, and a few colourful phrases thrown in here and there.

GEOGRAPHY: Big (6th on the list). But, like Canada, also very sparsely populated -- 2.5 people per square kilometre (Canada has 3.2). Population: about 21.4 million, all of them around the coast. There is nothing (NOTHING) in the middle of the country. If you drive across from Sydney to Perth, you see signs that say "Last petrol for 400km". There are 6 states and 2 territories (NT and ACT). The capital is Canberra (pronounced cam-bra, not can-bear-ra) and the biggest city is Sydney. Perth, state capital of Western Australia, is one of the most isolated regional capitals in the world. That's where I'm from.

FLAG: see attached. The big star under the Union Jack has seven points to represent the 7 states and territories (they didn't include the Australian Capital Territory coz it's tiny, insignificant, and no one cares about Canberra anyway). The constellation on the right is the Southern Cross. It's also on the NZ flag, but their stars are red, with five points. Ours are white with 7 points.

FAMOUS PEOPLE (just some you might have heard of): Nicole Kidman, Keith Urban, Heath Ledger (he was from Perth. The whole city went into shock when he died), Russel Crowe, Geoffrey Rush, Hugh Jackman, Banjo Patterson (poet, author of The Man from Snowy River), Ernie Dingo, Ian Thorpe, Shane Warne, Luc Longley (basketballer), Germaine Greer (feminist), Barry Humphries (alias Dame Edna Everage), Pat Rafter and Lleyton Hewitt (tennis players), Fiona Stanley (doctor, just about invented modern treatment for burns victims), Toni Collette, Cate Blanchett. Aussie bands you might know: Jet, Savage Garden, Missy Higgins, Crowded House, John Butler Trio, Silverchair, Men at Work, Ben Lee, Xavier Rudd...)

GOVERNMENT: Queen Elizabeth II is officially our head of state. We have our own parliament and constitution (we're very advanced like that). The current governing party is the Labor Party (the only time "labour" is spelt without a "u" for some reason), which is centre-left. The other big parties are the Liberals and Nationals (they form a coalition most of the time). There's also the Greens, One-Nation (the far-right one) and some other little ones.

INDUSTRY: Service mainly, but Mining and Agriculture make up about 60% of exports. Mostly wheat and wool, and iron-ore, gold, natural gas and coal, with some other bits and pieces thrown in (opals, silver, tin, nickel, diamonds, a bit of oil).

NATIONAL SYMBOLS: koala, kangaroo, eucalyptus tree, Sydney Opera House: the usual. Australian Rules Football, Uluru, the green and gold.
The Australian Coat of Arms shows all the states' symbols in a crest held up by a kangaroo and an emu. These two animals were chosen because a) they're both tall and b) neither can walk backwards (and our national anthem is called "Advance Australia Fair").
Funnily enough, the koala is not featured on any Australian money: the echidna, lyre bird, platypus, kangaroo and emu are.

OTHER SOURCES OF NATIONAL PRIDE: the only extant monotremes (egg-laying mammals - platypus and echidna), and most of the world's marsupials. We generally rank in the top six medal takers at the Summer Olympics, despite having a markedly smaller population than all the others at the top of that list.
In 2008, four cities (Melbourne 2nd, Perth 4th, Adelaide7th and Sydney 9th) reached The Economist's top ten "world's most livable cities" list.
The fact that we have desert, rainforest, coral reefs and alpine regions. And some of the oldest rocks on the planet (no volcanic activity helps).
Also, we walk upside-down (obviously).
And our swans are all black.

MEASUREMENTS: metric. Did you know that the imperial system is now standardised on the metric system? So an inch, officially, is 2.54cm, a foot is 30.48cm, and a mile is 1609.344m. Go figure. Initially, the metric system was defined by the French, making the distance from pole to equator 10,000km, and dividing it up accordingly. Now, a metre is defined as the distance that light travels in free space in one 299,792,458th of a second. How about that.

HOLIDAYS: We celebrate Australia Day on the 26th of January, Boxing Day on 26th of December, and there is no Thanksgiving. Most of Australia celebrates the Queen's Birthday on the second Monday in June. In Western Australia, we have Foundation day on the 1st Monday in June, so we do our own Queen's Birthday, which is kinda like Easter, with no fixed date. It's usually the last Monday in September or the 1st in October, but the State Governor decides it each year. None of these days actually celebrate any real queen's birthday, and the name will change to the King's Birthday Holiday when Charlie (or William, if it comes to that) takes the throne.

Ummmm.... I think that's it. I have successfully not done any work for about an hour now. Excellent. Good night.

Más de profesoras

My Spanish professor has the ability to pull off wearing cropped wool pants with boots. I am so impressed.

I mean she also has a Ph.D. from Columbia and is like, a big deal, but seriously: ROCKED the pants.

/ok, maybe I need MORE women and gender studies classes. Aaah!

i've decided not to make sense

your girl was named christina.

mine is neither christina nor mine.

also, in 2002 i was thirteen, which is a bit much, i think

fuck you

i prefer "entered this mortal coil with a differently-composited eating utensil in my masticatory orifice," thankyouverymuch.

Bristol, darling

Where, pray tell, is your baby? Hmmm? Because not only would I would hate for these nasty rumors to follow you and your charming mother around, I can't wait to see what you name the little bundle of joy.

/How about "Kumquat"? Kumquat Palin-Johnston. I like it.

Updated with perspective

I could be this guy.

or this guy.

Or a tragically emo blogger.

/oh shit

you owe me twenty four dollars for those pills

did i do something to you

is that why you broke my dreams

pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
won't you open up your eyes
pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
stop wearing your disguise

i know a girl next door
she wears all white
alone in her room she's afraid of light
a diary is her best friend
writing away all the things she's too shy to say
too shy to say

a cold day she walks alone
wishing she had someone's hand to hold
so warm
so warm

but she's too afraid to even raise her head
she'll think of all her emptiness instead
her emptiness instead

pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
won't you open up your eyes
pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
stop wearing your disguise

break your mirror the way it breaks your smile
hold your head up don't have to hide for a while
and you'll see (you'll see) how beautiful you can be

break your mirror the way it breaks your heart
step outdoors away from the dark
and you'll see (you'll see) how beautiful you can be

pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
won't you open up your eyes
pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
stop wearing your disguise

break your mirror the way it breaks your smile
hold your head up don't have to hide for a while
and you'll see (you'll see) how beautiful you can be

break your mirror the way it breaks your heart
step outdoors away from the dark
and you'll see how beautiful you can be

pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
wouldn't open up her eyes
pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl
forever a prisoner of her disguise

no tienen un problema con desnudez porque en realidad, son desnudos por todos sus vidas. nunca los aprenden a esconder sus pensamientos. no hay mentiras piadosas en su cultura.

es tan interesante a verlos en nuestra mundo. en esta universidad que fue fundado por protestantes ingleses.

me pregunté que ezekiel wheelock pensaría si él viera dartmouth hall, su edificio original, con españolas, italianas, francesas.

probablemente él habría muerto cuando vio a la mayoría de nuestro alumnado.

i ski at ninety-nine miles an hour and i drive like a maniac sixteen-year-old. i have three different kinds of water boards and an obsession with the perfect wave. i chase information, i write stories fifteen minutes before deadline and sprint across campus to turn in my thirty-second-late papers.

i never sleep.

i want boys i can't have, clothes i can't afford and i will fucking out-snipe you on eBay. i email nine people at once and i have five news tabs on auto-refresh--at least.

i am caffeine.

i chase roller coasters.

i talk too fast.

i want the rush. papersargumentsheightsspeeddepthfreefallcoffeedeadlinesoutofcontrolcrazyitisspinning
anditiswild.

i will count the stars.

I drank the Kool-Aid

Yes. I inhaled. Frequently. That was the point.

you sort of doubt she grows roses

you do not remember your dreams. other people describe fantastic scenarios with plots, details, semi-realistic situations. real-life characters.

you remember feelings. images. sounds.

but last night you remembered her.

like fire

hellfire

is turning me to sin

it's not my fault

mea maxima culpa

*pat pat*

So The Blonde with Hot Librarian Glasses is my current roommate. (Yes, I realized it was stupid to name The Awesome Roommate as such because while she is still awesome, she is not still my roommate. I guess I could change her name to The Awesome Thursday Morning Breakfast Buddy. Let that be noted.)

Anyway, The Blonde is a highly HIGHLY intelligent person. She kicks my ass in math. She is also...from Texas. For the sake of preserving warm and fuzzy roommate feelings, we try not to discuss politics that much, but the past few months have forced us to break the rules.

Conversation that took place yesterday (please try to keep in mind the part where she is HIGHLY INTELLIGENT I SWEAR.)

"OHMYGOD I can't believe he's going to appoint Hillary Clinton as the Secretary of State!!"

"I mean...she's smart. And she's bitchy, which is kind of a pre-req. Oooooh did you buy CHEESE?"

"Yeah, I'm making melty cheesy dip."

"SWEET."

"But seriously, like, whatever...ow ow ow cheesy salty stuff in paper cut---if Hillary is secretary of state, we are going to get attacked SO FAST."

"I don't know...would YOU fuck with Hillary Clinton? Because I wouldn't."

"Neither would Bill. Heh. Anyway, she's a woman! Our key diplomacy is with ARABIC COUNTRIES. Are they going to even LISTEN to her? Plus, Clinton Clinton was a pussy--they'll remember that. Can I use some of your jalapenos?"

"SPICY CHEESY DIP! You can have a jalapeno if you answer one question: Who is our current secretary of state?"

"Ummm...."

"You totally know this."

"Oh shit."

"Yes..."

"It's Condelezza Rice."

"Who is..."

"A woman. Give me your stupid liberal jalapenos."

/she makes good food so I keep her around.

*Le Sigh*

I really wish I hadn't taken a civil liberties class because I don't have an opinion on anything anymore but I'm still pretty sure this is fucked up.

As I'm way too cracked out right now to provide intelligent commentary, I will instead provide some entertaining Avenue Q lyrics:

"Now there was a fine upstanding black man!

Who?

Jesus Christ.

But, Gary, Jesus was white.

No, Jesus was black.

No, Jesus was white.

No, I'm pretty sure that Jesus was black-

Guys, guys...Jesus...was Jewish!"

HALP

You know how something that's only semi-funny strikes you at a time when it is unbelievably inappropriate to laugh, like at a funeral or when you're in the course reserves, and thus becomes EXPONENTIALLY funnier?

Yeah.

/I'm really weirding out the person next to me tonight.

Bloody Hell.

*snort*

From Dartmouth 2013 Facebook group:

"Is Dartmouth generally more conservative than some of the other ivies?

Yes, in the same way that Liechtenstein is larger than Monaco and the Vatican. "

/yup

This is my only chance to be blinded by idealsim

I forgot to acknowledge the 5th of November V for Vendetta style. (my transcript of Valerie's thoughts was early). Oh the nerd shame.

If I were a stupid idealistic college student drawing grandiose parallels, I might point out that the reason I forgot was because Barack Obama was giving his victory speech at midnight on what was, incidentally, the fifth day of November. And by 12:30 I was busy being part of a mob. A loud cheering screaming chanting trampling mob. Mobs can be difficult up here in the boonies, because there is really nowhere to go, but we managed, by descending on the president's house. Security was peeved, but he's pretty chill and acquiesced to the rather inexplicable demand that he make a speech. (He managed to satisfy the crowd without actually making a partisan statement. Brilliant. That's why he's the president of the College.) The Hanover police, who were thrilled to have something to do came and broke up the mob, which fragmented into a fraction that went to get drunk and faction that went to get cheese fries at food court.

It was great. (Really shit video) I didn't finish my Spanish homework, and I do not regret it, and when I'm forty, I will say I was an idiot.

However.

""We are told to remember the idea, not the man. Because a man can fail. He can be caught, he can be killed and forgotten."

Especially if the media has crowned him king.

My name is caffeinegirl

...and I'm a news addict.

Hi caffeinegirl!

There is no election news. There are no Biden gaffes. There is no Palin idiocy.

This is me:

Gobama

This was posted as a scandalous item but I think it's fucking awesome. I would also like a sound byte of Obama saying "fucking" because I think that would be amusing, considering his demeanor.

* The debates unnerved both candidates. When he was preparing for them during the Democratic primaries, Obama was recorded saying, "I don't consider this to be a good format for me, which makes me more cautious. I often find myself trapped by the questions and thinking to myself, 'You know, this is a stupid question, but let me … answer it.' So when Brian Williams is asking me about what's a personal thing that you've done [that's green], and I say, you know, 'Well, I planted a bunch of trees.' And he says, 'I'm talking about personal.' What I'm thinking in my head is, 'Well, the truth is, Brian, we can't solve global warming because I fucking changed light bulbs in my house. It's because of something collective'." *


/almost as awesome as Scottish professors saying "bloody hell"

omgsrslyaaaaaktxbai

"If [the media] convince enough voters that that is negative campaigning, for me to call Barack Obama out on his associations," Palin told host Chris Plante, "then I don't know what the future of our country would be in terms of First Amendment rights and our ability to ask questions without fear of attacks by the mainstream media."


Salon's Glenn Greenwald explains why this argument is frighteningly wrong:

If anything, Palin has this exactly backwards, since one thing that the First Amendment does actually guarantee is a free press. Thus, when the press criticizes a political candidate and a Governor such as Palin, that is a classic example of First Amendment rights being exercised, not abridged.


This isn't only about profound ignorance regarding our basic liberties, though it is obviously that. Palin here is also giving voice here to the standard right-wing grievance instinct: that it's inherently unfair when they're criticized. And now, apparently, it's even unconstitutional.

According to Palin, what the Founders intended with the First Amendment was that political candidates for the most powerful offices in the country and Governors of states would be free to say whatever they want without being criticized in the newspapers. The First Amendment was meant to ensure that powerful political officials would not be "attacked" in the papers. It is even possible to imagine more breathaking ignorance from someone holding high office and running for even higher office?

Epic Flail

Scene: Government 54, U.S. Foreign Policy

Actors: The Professor, kickass
Me, spastic
Phil, less spastic

As participation is "highly encouraged and may be factored into our grades" I have been known to occasionally do the reading for this class. I don't always work up the nerve to contribute, but sometimes, the pretentious assholes (we have a female one in this class, how diverse), sometimes they get to me and I work up the nerve to raise my hand. El profesor, who is actually a very cool guy, is sensitive to the fact that it's kind of awkward to have people sitting there with their hands up and to maintain a sense of order/blood circulation, he usually acknowledges the group of people with their hands raised, a la "Okay, so we'll hear from Radical Republican, Stoner Hippie, and then Caffeinegirl."

Everyone collectively tunes out Radical Republican, as that's better for your blood pressure. I surreptitiously check blitz on my phone. Rad Repub shuts up and THEN. The prof calls on me OUT OF ORDER. Flustered, I attempt to compose my thoughts.

For some reason, this causes me to FLING MY PHONE DOWN THE CENTER AISLE OF THE ROOM. The phone is shiny. The carpet is slippery. It slides ALL THE WAY TO THE FRONT ROW, where it lands next to Phil, fellow newspaper slave. He quickly picks it up.

I have no idea what I said after that, but I'm not sure if I recovered successfully or not. I kind of doubt it.


To do: GLUE PHONE TO HAND.

No cheating

i know there is no way I can convince you that this is not one of their tricks. but i don't care. i am me. my name is valerie. i don't think i'll live much longer and i wanted to tell someone about my life. this is the only autobiography i will ever write and god--i'm writing it on toilet paper.

i was born in nottingham in 1985. i don't remember much about those early years, but i do remember the rain. my grandmother owned a small farm in tuttlebrook and she used to tell me that god was in the rain.

i passed my eleven-plus and went to girl's grammar. it was at school that i met my first girl friend. her name was sarah. it was her wrists--they were beautiful. i thought we would love each other forever. our teacher told us it was an adolescent phase that people outgrew. sarah did. i didn't.

in 2002 i fell in love with a girl named kristina. that year i came out to my parents. i couldn't have done it without kris holding my hand. my father wouldn't look at me. he told me to go and never come back. my mother said nothing. but i had only told them the truth. was that so selfish? our integrity sells for so little, but it is all we really have. it is that very last inch of us--but within that inch we are free.

i'd always known what i wanted to do with my life and in 2015 i starred in my first film, the salt flats. it was the most important role of my life, not because of my career, but because it was how i met ruth. the first time we kissed, i knew i never wanted to kiss any other lips but hers again.

we moved to a small flat in london together. she grew scarlet castles for me in our window-box and our place always smelled of roses. those were the best years of my life.

but america's war grew worse, and eventually came to london. after that there were no roses anymore. not for anyone

i remember how the meaning of words began to change. how unfamiliar words like collateral and rendition became frightening while things like norsefire and the articles of allegiance became powerful.

i remember how different became dangerous. i still don't understand it. why they hate us so much. they took ruth while she was out buying food. i'd never cried so hard in my life. it wasn't long before they came for me.

it seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place but for three years i had roses and apologized to no one.

i shall die here. every inch of me shall perish. every inch but one. it is small and it is fragile and it is the only thing in the world worth having. we must never lose it or give it away. we must never let them take it from us.
i hope whoever you are that you escape this terrible place. i hope that the world turns and that things get better. but most of all i hope that you understand what i mean when i tell you that even though i do not know you, that i will never meet you, cry with you, laugh with you, or kiss you--i love you. with all my heart. i love you.

valerie.

this is so deeply frightening.

5.6 liters is quite a bit.

you're pretty sure you were never even close.

but you've seen her.

she might be close.

she might even be over.

and she is so tiny.

Overheard

'10 girl: "I would SO do her, but, like, platonically."
'10 guy: "So...sex yes, sexual tension, no?"
'10 girl: "Exactly."

RIGHT.

UPDATE

There are actual things for me to write about, which will come, I swear, but for now...

I WENT STREAKING!!!

It was awesome.

/self call!

News: Anti-sorority rush sucks just as much as rush.

you liar.

I have so much to say that I can't write anything.

you said, "but you're only seventeen."

i fought you.

know something?

you were right.

Allegedly we are all highly intelligent

We sat around brainstorming excuses. Not "the printer ate my homework and my hard drive crashed and I have mono"-level excuses. Real ones, that stop professors flat and leave them speechless, but in an extension-granting mood.

We settled on "I'm so sorry my paper is late, but my brother came out to my religious parents and I had to go home to do damage control."

This narrowly beat out "My sister had an abortion and there were complications."

Of course, we could have done our work instead.

He would have said hung

I am sitting here editing someone's article.

He should be hanged for war crimes against the English language.

Clearly, I am from the wrong planet

Possible reasons that my mother, who has a habit of disappearing to the deepest recesses of the house while boiling water for tea, freaks out if anyone shuts off the burner when the whistle goes off.

....
....
....

Screw it, I can't even come up with something mildly plausible, let alone amusing.

/"WAIT! I'LL GET IT!" Her voice echoes from the crawl space under the basement. The piercing whistle bores into my brain and I draw closer to the ever-approaching brink of INSANITY.

Applied logic

The mother has a desk in her study, which is covered with miscellaneous paper, and a desk in the kitchen, which is covered with cookbooks. Thus, she does her writing at the computer that is on the brother's desk. Since he tends to go to sleep and turn out the lights, she does most of her work in the dark.

The brother does his work at the kitchen table, because his desk is covered with the mother's manuscripts.

We eat sitting on stools at the kitchen counter, because the table is covered with the brother's homework, except for the sister, because her space at the counter is covered with her math homework. The sister carries a plate of food into the study, where her English homework is spread out on the floor, and sits next to the plate of food for about an hour. She then throws the food out in the downstairs bathroom, which does not contain anyone's homework.

The father has decided to do all of his work in his Manhattan office, and to eat all of his meals before he comes home.

If I had an office in the city, I WOULD BE THERE.

the long awaited return...

"It's Project Runway--we're talking about reality show royalty here. I bet even Anton Scalia watches it."

~La professora increíble

mathematics

she always gets chinese or indian

which is more expensive than pizza

but is based on rice

rice grains stay separate the whole time

easier

it costs more

but it's less in the end if you know what she's adding up

None of you speak Dartmouth, but...

There are no posts

I realize this. *shame.*

However: I have a paper and finals coming up. That should generate some ACTIVE STUDYING, by which I mean massive procrastination.

Also: part of the reason there were no updates is because I started writing a humor column for the less-uptight section of our paper. I have not posted them here because they are essentially gigantic inside jokes about our campus, but...anyone interested?

I KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN.

I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE.

WHAT THE HELL. IS WRONG. WITH YOU PEOPLE?

ALL OF YOU?

Overheard

Frat guy: Yo, sorry, you have to leave, we can’t let high school people in.

High school girl, as she throws a beer in the guy's face: I AM A GROWN-ASS BITCH!

Guy, as he escorts her out: Too bad, we don’t let grown-ass bitches in either.

probably the best thing that you can do right now is accept that this is going to be a SLOW process.

y sabes que este sería más rapida en españa, pero sabes que no es posible. aunque tu te preguntes porque estaba necessario a volver, entiendes al mismo tiempo porque. es porque ahora tienes algo para que no hay una palabra ni en castellano ni en ingles. este es mas importante que españa.

pero te lo extrañas, es una país hermosa con cosas perfectas.

particularmente el café. estaba si bueno pero al mismo tiempo no estaba necessario. estaba una elección. nunca vas a saber si estaba una eleción porque estaba bueno o si estaba bueno porque estaba una elección.

me parece mas como una chica emo en castellano que en ingles. tu les pides perdon, pero conoces si poco de la idioma y también ahora misma la estas pediendo.

Also, college probably has better parties

Why college is superior to high school:

In college, they are allowed to teach philosophy.

In high school, they have to pretend they are teaching something stupid like English and craftily sneak in the philosophy.

sometimes all of the pieces come together. you don't want to look for the scar, but you can't stop yourself. and of course, it's there, so now you know.

but what the fuck do you SAY?

You know when you have a single stray hair stuck to your bare arm?

And you cannot see it or remove it yourself BUT YOU KNOW IT'S THERE. Because you can feel it. Sense it. DRIVING YOU CRAZY.

This is the level of IRKED-NESS I am currently experiencing. (I mean, the hair thing happens too. I shed.) But. Something completely unrealted, but that generates the same level of RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

I know a Person. She believes that she is Very Creative, and thus likes to Captialize. Random words. Like this. And use pun. Cuation. WHERE THERE SHOULD BE NO PUNCTUATION AT ALL.

She's a rebel, people.

She once even...DYED HER HAIR. It was blonde, BUT NOW IT'S BROWN. Oh. My. God. I realize it is hard to comprehend, but yes. SHE WENT THERE. The media tells you to be blonde and SHE AIN'T LISTING TO THE MAN, SISTA. I realize that NO ONE HAS DONE THIS BEFORE and that it may be TOO MUCH for you to handle because this was A STATEMENT. About herSelf. That she is very busy discovering. AND TELLING ME/YOU/LARRY KING/ THE UNIVERSE about. Then I had this fantasy that involved punching her in the teeth.

It was beautiful.

Anyway, we're writing for the same "creative" publication. There's a section where all the contributors answer a question from the editor.

This week's question: "What song lyrics describe your summer mantra?"

Her answer: "Summer days, drifting away...to oh-oh those summer nights."

Oh. My. CHEESEBURGER.

THAT WAS WHAT YOU CAME UP WITH? IN ALL YOUR DARK, ALL-BLACK-WEARING LISTENING TO THE SPICE GIRLS BECAUSE THAT MAKES YOU REEEEETRO SELF-NESS, THAT WAS WHAT YOU CAME UP WITH? FUCKING GREASE?

I'm going to stab her with a spork. Then I'm going to post a picture of it on her Xanga and call it Performan.ce aRt.

/Wave your hands in the air/If you feel fine/We're gonna take it into overtime/Welcome to the space jam

people disappear. good, bad, book touring, parkhursted. saving kids in india, dropping out, interning with goldman, "leave."

" leave" can mean so many things, but sometimes it is too easy to figure it out.

she was so fragile.

i wonder what they did with her, where she is. if she's scared. and i wish i could fix her, this person who used to be my friend, but the only one who can do that is her.

sometimes it's too much and we don't make it.

ISRAELI-PALESTINIAN-CONFLICT-MUFFIN

I'm back on the North American continent but I think that broke my brain.

I'll be with you as soon as I'm more sane/no longer jetlagged/get over my sudden withdrawl from Spanish coffee

Also, "honking" is a completely awesome word

Fact of the day: First communions are a BIG HONKING DEAL around here and people take a TRUCKLOAD of pictures.

Minor annoyance of the day: Then they show EVERY SINGLE PICTURE to their foreign exchange student. There are only so many times I can say, “Oh, she looks pretty” and sound sincere, chica.

(Also, nice shots of you, sweetheart. Did you actually wear THAT MUCH makeup to church? And they let you IN? ¡Hostia!)

Linguistics

Lidia comes for lunch sometimes.

I have noticed, if they are in a fight, Paquita refers to her as “mi hija.” My daughter.

But if they aren’t in a fight, it’s “mi niña.” My little girl. My baby.

Does she think about her word choice?

Does Lidia care?

Do I analyze things to death?

POR. FA. VOR.

WHAT? What what what what WHAT?

AY MUJER.

So you usually DON’T take a nap after lunch, but if you have lunch with me and are thus TALKING to someone, YOU HAVE TO TAKE A NAP BECAUSE THAT MAKES YOU OUT OF BREATH?

Talking makes you out of breath? Madre FREAKING mia.

Oh you’d like my year-and-a-half-of-pre-med opinion? Is it because you’re getting old? NO, I DON’T THINK IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE GETTING OLD. I THINK IT’S BECAUSE YOU SMOKE THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND CIGERETTES A SECOND. HAS THAT EVER OCCURRED TO YOU?

Oh.

Of course not.

DUH.

Paquita Logic

If she doesn’t have time to make me anything for lunch besides a sandwich, she should give me wine, to make up for it.

If she has time to make a full meal, she should give me wine, because it’s part of the meal.

On the bright side, my alcohol tolerance has increased markedly.

Chica, PLEASE

This is Paquita's favorite song.

How the HELL did she select something so appropriate without speaking English?

Guess what?

Picasso...was Spanish!

This is not actually groundbreaking, but it does make that time I gave a presentation about him as a FRENCH artist in FRENCH class rather funny.

/Especially because I got an A.

it always is those two. coffee. chocolate. and every fucking time i wonder if there is indeed some order to the universe because the irony that those are the worst is just so horrific that it makes me bitterly laugh.

and i can't outofpracticemaybe dios mío if you knew what you had caused, please, for the love of God it's too much, stop giving people food. mujer, por favor.

if you knew.

Spit

In the middle of a highly embarrassing (for me) conversation about thongs:

Paquita: "Kati, you have something on your face."

*licks napkin, leans over, wipes whatever it is off of my face*

It's really amusing when the Paquita side of her collides with the mother side of her.

So I leave the U.S. for five minutes

and they go and come up with this while I'm gone.

I can't decide whether to go all American-college-student-OMG-WANT-GIMME-NOW or to go all America-college-student-who-was-just-in-Europe-and-is-now
all-above-your-mass-marketed-consumer-crap.

/I'll get back to you

She tells me that I think too much. If she only knew.

Sometimes I wonder what I would think of Paquita if I had met her speaking English, but it is a thought I suppress because I would have judged her.

She is uneducated. She is sometimes crude. She is stubborn and will never admit if she is actually incorrect. She smokes like it’s keeping her alive. She holds grudges, forever. You could say she’s kind of a bitch, and you wouldn’t be wrong, and as much as she is European, stylish and sophisticated to the American me, in truth, she also might be kind of…trashy.

Before she was sick, she was a secretary, somewhere, I don’t know where, and I can hear the dismissive, sometimes cruel comments that the investment bankers and the lawyers make about their secretaries, how sometimes they imitate the thick Brooklyn accents, and sometimes I can imagine her as the woman they are mocking. The woman that I have also mocked, have seen on the street and have thought that I was better than her.

I didn’t know.

I’m not going to give you some hugely cliché thing right now about how “Oh but I didn’t know, her life was really difficult, I’m so THANKFUL that I was given this opportunity to meet her,” blah-blah-blah-DIVE Day-cakes, put it in your college admissions essay, cariña. Not that she didn’t go through a lot of shit, and not that I don’t respect her, tremendously, for surviving, because life dealt her a hell of a hand, stuff many people couldn’t take, but she did, and she’s Paquita, Spanish chica extraordinaire.

But I don’t always agree with Spanish chicas. Sometimes, in my opinion, they make bad decisions. Sometimes, our values are too different. I was raised to believe that working hard is THE most important thing that you can do, taught to look down on people who don’t, learned to be ashamed if my lack of effort ever even slightly inconvenienced another person. Maybe that’s right and maybe it isn’t I don’t know. I say that Spanish people don’t work, because really, they don’t, but cultural differences aside…Paquita? Not so into the whole working thing. Example: sometimes, she sleeps through her alarm and I don’t see her at breakfast. Whatevs, no passa nada, I really don’t care, the first time it happened she did apologize, asked me if I knew where all the breakfast stuff was so I could grab something before I went out, I did. The mother? Good lord. With her own family, let ALONE a foreign exchange student, if she wasn’t up three hours before everyone else and didn’t make breakfast? I think if she ever accidentally sleeps through her alarm, she’ll die of shame. (No, it’s never happened. Ever. It’s against the laws of physics, I think.)

And that’s what I didn’t know. That I could not agree with someone, fundamentally, that I could judge them, that they’re probably judging me, thinking I’m crazy (verdad), who knows what, that we could just be a completely random pair…and that we could still be friends. Amigas. Juntos.

We are both Aries, something she puts a lot of stock in, and if we go out, if we have a drink, now, we toast las mujeres Aries, stubborn and sort of crazy, and we’re the perfect example of how differently those characteristics can manifest themselves. And I want a picture, because I want to see the scene from outside, the teeny little Spanish madre and her slightly awkward foreign student, in a bar, glasses raised, and actually, no, I don’t want a picture—I want to freeze that moment in time and never let it go.

411

It is easy to throw out a quick post about something outrageous, and it is easier still to select only certain elements of someone’s personality and to pick choice quotes and come up with a character in a story instead of a person in your life.

Because there is a lot more.

I don’t know why she has told me. Is it because of the language barrier, the way that everything has to be so simple, or would she tell me anyway? Sometimes it is impossible to pick up on social norms and I cannot tell if she is crazy, Spanish, maybe a little low-class, or all three.

I tell her, “Paquita you have no secrets,” and she laughs, and I am still confused.

This is what I know:

(In chronological order because dios mio how would I pick a way to organize it?)

1. She was born in the south of Spain, second youngest of six children. I have seen a picture, old and black and white. Little Paqui in blonde pigtails, to my immediate surprise, is shy and hiding from the camera. She tells me that she too is shy and I tell her I do not believe her.

2. Her family moved to Catalunya when she was nine. She can understand and read Catalan but doesn’t speak it. The family was very Catholic, very poor. She dropped out of school when she was twelve, to work. I am very careful when I ask her questions about the language now, because she will remind me how she does not know, she did not study. (Nouns are infinitely safer than verb tenses.) She speaks very colloquially and I can now see when her grammar is off.

3. She met Juan when she was nineteen, in a dance club. She was with her sisters, and her older sister liked him too, but the next week he asked her to dance, only her. They dated for six years before they were married. He left 20 years later. She woke up and he was gone. She is still in love him and I would wager that is the reason for the prescription of Prozac she once left in the kitchen by mistake.

4. She has two children. The oldest, Lidia, is almost 24. Pretty (although in my opinion her mother is prettier), very smart, from what I can tell, I’ve only met her twice. She works in Luxembourg, with her boyfriend, of whom Paquita does not approve (I think it’s because he’s Portuguese). Children usually take sides in a divorce and Lidia clearly chose her father, and I have seen her hurt her mother, deliberately calculated, and I have heard Paquita tell me that it does not bother her and I don’t believe a word. And I have done the same thing, and I know that it is different for Lidia because she calls her Mama instead of Paquita but still, I wish she weren’t a bitch like that.

4. The other is named Victor. He is 19. When Paquita was pregnant with him, Juan threw her into a door during an argument, and burned her stomach with a cigarette lighter. I have no idea what my face looked like when she told me that. The doctors told her she would lose the baby, but he lived. He’s mentally retarded but considering the circumstances, very high-functioning. He loves Hillary Duff’s music.

She stayed with Juan, of course, even though he did that, and I wonder if it even occurred to her that perhaps she should leave, escape. It probably didn’t, and she has an odd scar on her jaw that makes me think it has been broken, more than once. And I cannot give you a reason for any of that, but I can tell you that it is the same reason that she is still in love with him.

5. There was a boyfriend, after Juan. José. Former fútbol player, current team trainer, aka A BIG FREAKING DEAL. I’ve met him, he’s a classic sports superstar smooth playa hiding the asshole underneath. She knows that, and now they are “friends, to talk on the phone.” He wants her back and I know she debates just going back, because it would be easy, but she does not let herself. I think.

6. She has worked many, many different jobs, and I think one of them was definitely sketchy—I never understand 100% of what she says but it involved her, in France, with men. She was 14. (For all I know she was selling flowers. Translation errors are an unfortunate reality.) Now, she doesn’t work. She’s sick. At first she told me it was fibromyalgia, and I, the scientist who doesn’t believe in that, was skeptical. Even though I see how sometimes, she is so clearly seized with pain, she will never admit it, will yell at me if I try to pick up whatever it is on the floor so she doesn’t have bend over. But then she tells me, with her little naughty smile how she flirts with the doctor who signed her form for disability payments, and I wonder, I judge her, accuse her in my mind of simply not wanting to go to work.

But there is something else, too, besides fibromyalgia and phantom pain, and knowing how she is, I believe that she would tell me about the “fibromyalgia” and hide whatever it is she also has that is more serious. That some days makes her completely unable to eat. That sometimes makes her vomit, endlessly, even though I know there is nothing in her stomach. I’m sure she thought I couldn’t hear, but I can unfortunately detect that sound rather well and one day worked up the nerve to ask if she was okay. Because, despite her personality, she is still a Spanish woman, and they are so damn SMALL, tiny even. Narrow shoulders, slender wrists, arms, legs—I feel like if I were careless, I might break her. Not that anyone could actually break her—she’d kick your ass first.


This sounds sort of emo, but I had to get all the facts out, somehow. If I don’t say it, it rattles around in my head and drives me crazier.

I wrote a story

so it's in Spanish. Oh well. I like it.

Hay un parque cerca de mi trabajo que me gusta, es donde voy cada tarde para sentarme y para leer mi periódico tabloide, mi actividad ligeramente vergonzosa para el día. Es uno de esos parques que el gobierno de la ciudad construyó cuando el alcalde quería decir a los ciudadanos que él estaba trayendo la naturaleza a la ciudad, para los niños, claro. Entonces ellos metiendo los parques adondequiera había espacio, y algunos, como mío, son tan pequeñitos que parecen ridículos, unas islas minúsculas en el centro del caos urbano, el tipo de trabajo del gobierno que explica porque los contribuyentes siempre quieren llorar.

Mi parque posiblemente no es completamente un desperdicio. Hay solo algunos árboles y la banca donde estoy sentando ahora, no hay bastante espacio para un patio de recreo, pero algunos de los niños del barrio vienen aquí, para jugar. Ellos pueden encontrar espacio para sus juegos, pienso que ellos juegan al escondite o juegan al corre que te pillo o posiblemente otra cosa, no sé exactamente que los niños hagan estas días. ¿Qué hacen ahora ?

Dios, uno ha trepado un árbol. A veces, sus juegos son un poco peligrosos y quiero decirse parar, pero recuerdo cuando tenía siete anos, y no me gustaría una descocida entrometida, entonces, no hago nada pero me pregunto, ¿ donde están sus padres?

¿ Ah, que pasa? Están mirando un pájaro pequeño. Si, puedo ver, el cayó de ese nido a esto cepo más bajo. Esto niño en el árbol está tratando ayudarlo. Él se sale del árbol con el pájaro pequeño en sus manos. Se me caigo mi tabloide y me levanto para mirarlos.

El niño pone el pájaro sobre la tierra. Es lerda, inestable sobre sus pies. Los niños agrupan alrededor del pájaro y lo siguen, el está tratando escaparse, claro está aterrorizado. Me parezco que esté tan pequeña para volar, prácticamente no puede ni correr y—Dios mío. Él corrió en la calle, enfrente de un coche. Que lastima.

Los niños están al margen de la calle, con cinco bocas pequeñas abiertas en círculos perfectos de sorpresa, hasta uno empieza reír. Es uno tipo de reacción, supongo. Tres de los otros empiezan reír también, riendo hasta ellos tienen que sentarse sobre la tierra. Pero uno, el niño quien trepó el árbol, él está llorando.

“ ¡ No es divertido, idiotas! ” él grita a los otros, y huye, pienso para su casa. Hay una parte de mi corazón que quiere seguirlo. Probablemente él piensa que la culpa es suya, pero claro, no es. Culpo el alcalde, o posiblemente los ciudadanos quien votan y ponen impuestos. Yo, por ejemplo.

Doblo mi tabloide, he leyendo solo la primera mitad, pero ahora tengo que volver a mi casa. Los otros niños todavía están aquí, están jugando un juego diferente, quizás ellos han olivado el pájaro. Tengo que caminar cerca del pájaro para cruzar la calle, pobre diablo, y no puedo contenerme de mirarlo. Está más que un poco repugnante, pero mientras miro, yo también empiezo reír. No es divertido, pero es mi mundo, nuestro mundo, que nosotros hemos creado, un mundo donde necesitamos construir los parques ridículos en el centro de la ciudad y no puedo hacer nada para repararlo, pero puedo reír.

Right hand stirring the onions, left hand holding a cigarette and pouring herself another glass of sangria

If I can figure out a way to surreptitiously videotape her, believe me, I will.

Chica is pretty damn perceptive

especially when you consider that she's known me for less than a month and the SEVERELY restricted level of our communication:

"Kati. The word "complicated?" It is your favorite word. And now it is forbidden, I prohibit it. No, seriously. You say everything is complicated but I think, really, it is all in your head. NO MORE COMPLICATED."

I need the ability to tell her that she is so freaking right.

Yes, I plan to see a psychiatrist

about my tendency to fixate on people. In the meantime:

“Today, I went back to the doctor. Carmen [amiga] went with me because José [“amigo” aka he’s totally her novio] and I , we are in a fight. *exaggerated drag on cigarette* Men. Anyway, I thought this maybe, and Carmen told me she could definitely see it, that the doctor, perhaps he likes me. Of course this is crazy because he is much too young and handsome, and I am a mess when I am sick because I do not wear makeup. But I don’t know. I will get better and I will fix my hair and makeup and I will go back. And then we will see.”

Classic. Perhaps in part because she is forced to speak such basic Spanish to me, or perhaps because that is how she is. All I know is that I really wish I’d had a freaking camera, because then I could post a picture of the I-know-I-am-so-naughty expression she had at the end of that little speech.

The American in me is just screaming PLEASE PUT THEM AWAY.

Chica. MIRA.

When you tell me that your breasts used to be so much perkier, I SWEAR, I WILL TAKE YOUR WORD FOR IT. But...ok, you know what? I GIVE UP. FINE. TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT AT THE TABLE. GO AHEAD. I don't even CARE any more. (nice neon yellow lace bra, btw)

/no really i love her except T. FREAKING. M. I.
//no her son wasn't there, it was just us, which lowers her boundaries even more
///and i suppose that I should be grateful that she was at least WEARING the damn bra

I need to learn some Spanish profanity

I HAVE SO MUCH TO WRITE ABOUT BUT I DON’T HAVE ANY TIME.

And I’m having so much trouble getting through the first thing on my list of things to write about, which is to fully explain Paquita.

This is not ever going to happen, because even if I understood her, which I don’t, I would never be able to capture it with mere words. But I can try.

For example: Notable Topics of Discussion During Lunch Today

1. How I need to get to know lots of boys, because I need to make sure I pick the right one. Slash she suggests tall dark haired guys with blue eyes, but she understands if I have different tastes. (Any tall, dark-haired guys with blue eyes reading this, come to Barcelona. She’d like to meet you.) This of course required bringing up her tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed but regrettably crazy ex-husband.

2. Which segued smoothly into the story of how she lost her virginity to said ex-husband. (Because you’re all dying to know: wedding day, she was changing out of her wedding dress into a different dress for the party that night. She asked him for help with getting the zipper of the first dress undone. They were apparently rather late for the party. I managed not to die during this story, fyi.)

3. Then we get into her favorite topic of conversation, aka, Kati you are so skinny! Eat more! You will not be strong! You need nutrients! Also, the chicos want chicas with tits and ass! (This sort of encapsulates the way she really freaks me out because she can do the hi-I’m-your-mom-clean-your-plate-thing AND the hell-yeah-chica-work-it-thing AT THE SAME TIME.)

4. She has gotten the (correct) impression, that my mother doesn’t eat. She would really like to meet my mother and tell her a thing or two. I would also really like her to meet my mother, as long as I get to film the encounter. Instant YouTube fame, people.

5. At this point (we’re in a bar, as usual, because, obviously, when one is hosting American students, one should take them to bars. And buy them shots. Ok, yes, arguably, this one also serves food.) Anyway, guy comes into the bar. He’s about 30, fairly good looking. She gets all “shhh…Kati, check out that guy.” Apparently, he was hitting on her the last time she was here and tried to get her number, but she didn’t give it to him, because he’s too young for her. (And also because she has this boyfriend who she thinks I don’t know about. But I digress.) She goes up to pay, but walks by him and stops to talk. For a while. I wait awkwardly. Long story short---she doesn’t pay, he pays. I suddenly realize how she can afford to eat out all of the time.


I have, thus far, lived a very narrowly Harvard-complex-focused life, and as a result, I have spent a lot of time banging my head against the wall. But all of it---the science research, the screaming parents, the never, ever having a life in high school, the passing out in the hallway, the scarring of multiple innocent first-year English teachers, the not getting into Harvard and going to Dartmouth instead and having an existentialist crisis that somehow resulted in being inexplicably pre-med and taking cell biology and dying, and passing out some more, and stumbling through Spanish class at 7:30 am which is not actually a real time, fyi, and not looking at grades and developing strange obsessions with government professors—in all of it, I would not change a goddamn thing because that was the path that resulted in me going to Spain and getting assigned this specific homestay family and thus spending two hours today eating lunch with the most I-don’t-even-know person I have ever freaking met and ALL OF IT was worth it for THOSE TWO HOURS that I can’t explain because it was just SPANISH and that is AWESOME.

Yes, our level of conversation includes lots of hand gestures

And no, I didn't know that was how you say "to breastfeed" BUT I DO NOW. You can stop grabbing yourself. Really.

/Shame + Spain = ERROR DOES NOT COMPUTE.

It's not that I don't understand Spanish...

...I mean, ok, I don't understand a lot of Spanish, but the part where you told me how you were sexually frustrated? I understood that perfectly. The expression on my face was less confusion and more "how can I make myself drop through a hole in the floor?"

/there is no shame in this entire fucking culture

Paquita

None of you all are going to believe me, but I have an amazing capacity to become almost completely non-communicative and horrifically shy. (Yes, really.) This generally happens if I am thrust into the company of non-shamed people (see also: Spanish/Latino culture, persons thereof.) The fact that I DON’T SPEAK SPANISH is probably a contributing factor, because I get horrifically nervous that I’m going to fuck up and do something like confuse the words for “hairdryer” and “alarm clock,” which, by the way, can lead to some seriously nonsensical conversations.

Anyway, based on my experiences with my Spanish prof (who I can’t BELIEVE I never posted about, except it’s kind of hard to explain someone fantastically crazy whose sheer personality hits you like an 18-wheeleer, except in a probably-less-painful fashion), I decided that when the study-abroad office gave me an application for homestay housing and asked me to “describe myself,” it would be a good idea to mention that I was on the quiet side.

Logically, they put me with this crazy loca chain-smoking high-heeled-leather-boots-wearing chica. Duh.

I’ve been trying to describe her for about five days, except the only thing I can think to say is to maybe reuse the lame 18-wheeler metaphor from above, or perhaps to repeat that her name is Paquita, she’s 40, and I still don’t know if she’s crazy or just Spanish.

/she is the personification of “chica please”

DIOS MIO

Hi. I have no internet access, obviously a problem. I also don't speak Spanish, and I no longer speak English as a result of trying to speak Spanish. My madre is either crazy or just Spanish. I believe it's the latter.

I will sort this out as soon as I crack the neighbor's encryption so I can steal their wireless. If you are a computer science major, please contact me to tell me how to do that. If you have any experience with getting rid of rando Spanish guys on the subway, also contact me. If you teach English, I need to talk to you.

/chica please is the best phrase EVER.

Dearth of posts

Attempting.

To Break. Caffeine.

Addiction.


Be with you. After. I'm dead.


/Is the coffee worth it? After all, at a point when you give into dependence, it stops affecting you and you need, need it to wake up. And there is nothing sadder or more pathetic than the bleary-eyed stumbling pre-coffee addict, and she is so the definition of pretty freaking miserable.

But if she survives and actually gets to the coffee--it is completely worth it energy sunshine speed rainbows i can conquer the universe level of worth it.

It's a guarantee of at least one triumphant period during the day, I suppose.

//Why are you hitting your head against the wall? It feels good when I stop!

This is not a test

I met Patrick Stewart.

That is all.

/that is SO not all, but I've temporarily lost all cognitive ability as a result.
///asdijwe piou asdklf z s aio diou adf sa ajkl a dfs ioweiuo ewr iuoerw iou er wjkl dfs ljk fd ajkl klfds jkl dfs a jkldfs aj klf ds

Good Morning!

Hello everyone! You may notice that several recent posts have been edited or simply disappeared all together. This is a feeble attempt to project some measure of sanity. Thanks!

/revisionist history is fun

*splort*

This so perfectly encapsulates my math final.

I am so studying

From a Fark thread on Starbucks:

I am a hipster douche bag, so I enjoy overpriced snobbish coffee.

However, being a hipster, I am thus a democrat and I hate evil corporations like Starbucks.

Thus whenever I walk by one i disappear into a self-contained paradox.

I am dying studying for exams

But honestly, what's the point? PEOPLE KEEP DOING SHIT LIKE THIS.

The problem

with academia IS THAT THE PAPERS ARE WRITTEN BY ACADEMICS.

Example: "This focus on boundary conditions serves to highlight the probability that economic integration does not always lead to pacific political relations. And given that the effect is not universal, if we are to have any ability to predict whether economic ties will have a pacific effect in a particular case--like the relationship across the Taiwan Strait--it becomes imperative to have a clear understanding of the microfoundations underlying any relationship that might exist between commerce and and conflict. In other words, simply knowing that strong economic ties are present in a particular case should not convince us that the liklihood of a military confrontation is therefore reduced in that case. Rather, it would be better to be able to observe whether or not the casual processes that link economic interdependence to a reduction in military violence are operating in that case. Existing studies have identified at least three-non mutually exclusive casual mechanisms through which economic interdependence can yield a reduced probability of military conflict."

That's a very impressive paragraph, Dr. Kastner. EXCEPT FOR THE PART WHERE IT TAKES TWENTY MINUTES TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.

This is what you said:
- Economic interdependence does not always promote peace.
- It does promote peace when three established conditions are met.
- Therefore, if you want to evaluate the effect of economic interdependence, you should focus on these specific conditions, not overall interdependence.

SO WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY IT THAT WAY? OH, BECAUSE THEN YOU DIDN'T GET TO USE THE WORD "MICROFOUNDATIONS." I AM GOING TO DRIVE TO MARYLAND TO SHOVE A COPY OF THIS PAPER UP YOUR LEFT NOSTRIL. THE END.

//I realize this blog used to be about things other than international relations/my obsession with professors thereof. I will attempt to return things to their previous state. Maybe tomorrow I'll take a nice spill headfirst down the stairs and we can go back to focusing on things like that.

Love, me

And then I decided it might not be a good idea to be posting people's real names all over the internet.

Hi internet!

Possibly even worth $400 an hour

"Is cooptation a word? Yes? No? Dammit, not again. I'll be standing up here [in front of the class], say something and think 'oh my God that's not a word.' So then I look around and if no one reacts, I just keep going. But sometimes, everyone stares back at me like 'what the hell? You just made up a word.' And I cringe, internally. And, ok, probably externally. Like that lovely speech I gave yesterday when I mixed up 'interdependence' and 'independence' approximately eleven thousand times. The English language is not fair."

Origins of the various bruises on my body

1. Knuckles, left: Towel on bar being used as foothold to facilitate top-bunk-exitage slipped off of bar, foot slipped with towel, law of gravity was upheld. Descending knuckles made abrupt contact with crown molding.

2. Hip, right: Shortly after above incident, side of body impacted the floor at high velocity.

3. Head, back of: While retrieving lost pencil, miscalculated distance between skull and underside of desk.

4. Knee, left: Slipped on ice cleverly disguised as bare sidewalk.

5. Knee, left, immediately below previous: Ice *remained* cleverly disguised as bare sidewalk on return trip. Lack of memory blamed on incident #3.

6. Dignity, the shred I have left: Damage likely permanent.

I wish

that I had come up with this.

Quote of the Day

"Caffeinegirl! We are not printing 'it's an erratically loading web page.'"

"Why not?"

"Because...I'm sane?"

"But I'm not!"

"I know, but one of us has to be!"

~The Grammar Goddess
and moi

Fuck you, IvyGate

No news today?

Oh you are so original, IvyGate. OMG Hanover = TEH BOONIES, LOL!!!TWELVE!!!!

I suggest you reword your link. How about "Kickass reporter who just pulled an all-nighter manages to write 400 eloquent words about nothing"?

Yeah. Let's go with that.

See?

Bad: You pull an all-nighter

Also Bad: Your prof pulls an all-nighter

Freaking awesome: Your prof gives a two-hour lecture completely cracked out on caffeine.

I should

print this out and mail it.

Noodles with sesame sauce can burn the inside of your nose.

/Regrettably, I did not achieve the big finish and actually snarf the noodle, so my level of coolness among 7th grade boys is not guaranteed.

According to the unofficial list circulated through DHS in 2006, there were 9 faculty members who were definitively smarter than the students.

Dartmouth College currently employs about 350 tenured or tenure-track professors.

I have yet to encounter one who is not a genius of frightening proportions

/I'll just cower in the back of the classroom, thanks.

To: Los Profesores

You have two options:

1. Stop assigning your own papers.

OR

2. WRITE SHORTER PAPERS.

Thanks!


/woman! 53 pages! SERIOUSLY.
//Fine, it's at least a coherent 53 pages and you used a SchoolHouse rock song last lecture to explain something. I forgive you.
///FOR NOW.

I. FUCKING. QUIT.

iiiiii gave up swearing for lent. THAT LASTED LONG. but SERIOUSLY. SERIOUSLY SEIROUSLY SERIOUSLY.

I AM FAILING ALL OF MY CLASSES. PARTLY BECAUSE I WORK FOR THE PAPER. and i GO to the paper like a good little paper-bitch and GET a story and GO to the event, which was A BORING SPEECH, FYI and WRITE about the event and spend SIX HOURS OF MY LIFE THERE AND AS I'M LEAVING, THEY CANCEL MY STORY.

COUDLNT' YOU HAVE CANCELED IT...OH...I DON'T KNOW...BEFORE I WROTE IT?

but of course, they couldn't, because there was late breaking news that pushed me off and that's not their fault so it's NOBODY'S FAULT WHICH MEANS I HAVE NO ONE TO BEAT UP AND THAT MAKES ME ANGRY. AND THAT WAS SIX HOURS DURING WHICH I COULD HAVE STUDIED.

AND i'm so fucking tired that i can't even WRITE COHERENTLY so this isn't even going to be AMUSING or anything WRITING NEWS IS KILLING MY ABILITY TO WRITE CREATIVELY AND IT'S ALSO EATING MY SOUL KTXBAI.

BUT. i will carry on. BECAUSE THERE ARE THINGS AND THEY PISS ME OFF.

LIKE PEOPLE WHO CURVE THEIR MIDTERMS SO THAT NUMERICALLY, YOU GET AN A, BUT ACTUALLY, YOU GET A B+. THAT IS NOT FAIR. you're supposed to curve up, not down! note that is not actually my grade, i've only seen the statistics, not my actual exam, BECAUSE I LEFT BEFORE SHE COULD GIVE ME MY MIDTERM, WHICH I'M SURE SHE NOTICED, BECAUSE, DUH SHE STILL HAS THE MIDTERM.

also yes this is the oft-quoted prof, so i can't just like, blame it on her being a bitch or something, because she isn't. damn.

and while we're on the subject, I often come off like A COMPLETE FUCKING IDIOT, so i'm afraid to talk in class, so i'm always really really really nervous/incoherent LIKE TODAY, when i used a phrase that i CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER because it had approximately seven hundred adverbs in a row, and she REPEATED IT, kind of like "riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, ok, you're a spazz." which is unfair, because she's kind of a spazz. and then i DIED. it was tragic.

I HAVE TO GET UP IN 5.5 hours, fyi, BECAUSE I HAVE DRILL SO I CAN GO TO SPAIN, WHCIH I HATE. DRILL, NOT SPAIN. I HAVEN'T BEEN TO SPAIN, ERGO I CANNOT HATE IT. YET.

there was no reason for most of that to be in caps lock.

BUT THERE IS REASON FOR THIS TO BE IN CAPS LOCK. BECAUSE I FUCKING HATE PEOPLE who WALK OUT OF A MIDTERM, turn to you, and say "yeah, i totally rocked that test" BECAUSE THEN YOU STAB THEIR BRAINS. FUCK YOU. EVEN IF YOU TOTALLY ROCKED IT, I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING HEAR ABOUT IT TWO SECONDS AFTER I TOOK THE TEST. ALSO, YOU'RE A BITCH, and a large part of me really hopes that you did NOT indeed rock the test.

ANYWAY. i'm now contemplating whether i should make up some excuse for why i sort of slipped out of class before she could give me my midterm and then i can awkwardly blitz her being like HI I'M A COMPLETE NUTCASE, BUT YOU ALREADY KNEW THAT, BECAUSE YOU'VE MET ME FOR MORE THAN FIVE SECONDS.

I FAIL.