An ethical dilemma

As a fake New Yorker in Boston, I was prepared to enter a mass of people so severely misguided in their baseball team allegiences. (We will convienently ignore that I'm sretching across state lines to be in a suburb of New York AND that the Yankees are approximately three hundred million games back.)

What I was not prepared for, however, was the personally confusing juxtaposition of bumper stickers. Obviously, a person with a Red Sox bumper sticker is a complete moron, which is why they can't drive and should be honked at / cursed out / pelted with farm animals accordingly.

Yesterday, however, I saw a car whose owner had decided to display proof of his poor taste on the left side of his bumper. Typical. The RIGHT side of his bumper, however, was pure genius and you should all go purchase one. NOW.

So the question is, how is one to react to this awesomely moronic genius?

Flip them off with a smile?

Throw only half a dead woodchuck?

Suggestions welcome.

(Suggestions on how to stop blogging and STUDY FOR MY FREAKING ORGO TEST also welcome.)

*blink blink*

HOLY FUCKING SHIT HEEEEEEELLS YEAH!

Everyone needs to immediately begin using the word prat

I'm not going to sit here and gross you out by describing exactly how much pain orgo entails. And I say gross you out because to convey it in all its supremely masochistic horror I would have to resort to really disgusting metaphors such as "taking orgo is kind of like eating a really long worm, vomitting it back up so that each end is hanging out of a nostril and then using it to floss your nose." And that was the graphic detail into which I was not going to go.

BUT.

It may not actually be that bad because ( and I am about to roll out a new nickname here people, so this is big) BECAUSE of Fabulously Snarky British Girl, who I am lucky enough to sit next to.

And seriously? There are unbelievably prats who sit in the front and ask long and involed questions about possible exceptions to resonance structures in the case of a non-delocalized carboxylic acide group and the bitchy comments are not going to make themselves.

This is a chemistry experiment

The vending machine just spat out a bottle of Diet Coke from 2004. Am I drinking it? Does it have caffeine? Do I take Orgo? Will it kill me?

LET'S FIND OUT.

I would like to point out that my urget need for caffeine is incredibly weird. I'm sleeping 7-8 hours a night. HOW AM I EXHAUSTED?

Losing my game here people, losing my game.

Offical Notice

I am about to begin taking Organic Chemistry.

If you don't hear from me, it's because I went insane and escaped to New Zealand

SLASH

I got desparate and slept with the prof and it didn't go well

SLASH

it did go well and the prof is with me in New Zealand.

Wish me luck, or if you're feeling really charitable, come strangle me.

We can't help it

If you accept admission to one of the other seven Ivies, you are legally, contracturally, and morally bound to bash Harvard at every available opportunity. As I am actually now on the Harvard campus, with some Dartmouth/other Ivy/Stanford and similar students, the bashing has begun in earnest.

Samples:

We have to walk for TWENTY MINUTES TO GET TO CLASS? Who built this place? It's too spread out! They obviously don't have a land grant.

230 people in a class? Nice professor to student ratio. I bet they have TAs. How ghetto. I refuse to be taught by a person without a Ph.D.

Oh God. The food. SUCKS. I bet they don't even use free-range eggs.
(Please note that the food does actually suck, DRAMATICALLY, and the only thing that I ate for dinner was some salad and a brownie. Which is like two food groups people, so shut it.)

That guy was SUCH AN ASSHOLE. I know. He must actually go here. It's the rule.

Um, who has swipe cards? So 90s. We have proximity RFIDs, bitches!

Oh damn...they have plasma TVs too. But look! The piano, like, isn't even a Steinway! Seriously.

Unfortunately, at the end of the day, they are still Harvard. Fuckers.

Could be worse though. I think the Yalies automatically self-destructed after stepping on campus.

//Big Green KICKS YOUR ASS, CRIMSON
///Dartmoose FTW

Desparate times

I really hate agreeing with Hillary Clinton. It makes my spine hurt.


But unfortunately, I have no choice.

My ears, my sanity

While some might postulate that one can gain great insight into another's personality by perusing his or her iTunes collection, I for one would argue that it is actually the "Purchased" playlist that is the most revealing. It's one thing to grab a handful of free songs off of Limewire or out of someone else's collection, but actually forking over CASH, digital or otherwise, demonstrates a certain degree of committment / possible neuroses.

Let's check mine! American Idol, 98 Degrees, Paula Abdul, American Idol, Fergie, American Idol...shit. Clearly, I'm slightly hyperactive and have no taste. Theory supported!

(There's some Gorillaz, The Fray, and Gwen there too, I swear.)

Anyway, I'm browsing through the house computer and thus The Forty-Year-Old Younger Sister's music. Oooh, My Chemical Romance, I should steal that...yeah, and I don't have that KT Tunstall song...Regina Spektor, interesting...Ashlee Simpson, Rascall Fl--WAIT A MINUTE.

ASHLEE SIMPSON?

I am RELATED to someone who actually PUCHASED a song by a person who sounds like a cat being strangled, has a lower IQ than said cat, thought it would be a good idea to perform an improptu HOEDOWN on SNL, and can't even spell her own freaking name properly?

There are some things you are just better off not knowing.

* Insert sharp objects here *

"Ohmygod, I had SUCH a disaster at lunch today. I ate SIX of Emma's animal crackers."

Ordinarily, this space would contain a lame attempt at a biting retort which would swiftly devolve into a largely unfocused rant about our society's fixation with unattainable body images but today, it will not.

Because I'm busy training rabid woodchucks to attack me and puncture my eardrums, thus preventing me from HEARING THIS SORT OF THING.

The precious little sanity I have left

Did you work out yesterday?

Yes, I played tennis.

Oh, but you didn't work out on machines.

No, I did not. I did not lock myself in a basement for two hours. I played tennis. The weather was beautiful. There was no digital readout and I do not know exactly how many calories I burned. I lost. I had a good time.

What did you eat?

I ate two eggs (96/egg = 192) cooked in 1.5 teaspoons of butter (50) with one piece of bread (75), 2 slices of ham (25/slice = 50), and one vanilla light and fit yogurt (60). And for God's sake I woke up late so that was breakfast and lunch. (427, count 450 because I didn't measure the butter exactly.)

Hmmmmm...

*Gains unique understanding of Lizzie Borden's psyche*

I swear I would go back to Dartmouth even if it were finals week every week.

Do you even freaking UNDERSTAND

that today I have eaten NOTHING except for CHEESE AND MINIATURE REESES????

I'm serious.

Now, before you expect me to go all cheese-is-a-dairy-product-and-hey-peanut-butter-is-protein-yeah-baby-rationalization-face on you...let me confess that this was not just any cheese.

It was the kind of cheese that comes out of a can.

I LOSE.

Assorted testing of geeky things going on, please disregard

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Re: Comments on Last post

Dear Leina,

You SUCK.

Love and kisses,
Caffeinegirl

Deprivation Dilemma

Pirates of the Carribbean 3 is playing in theaters RIGHT NOW. AND I HAVE NOT YET SEEN IT.

There are unfortunately two factors contributing to my serious lack of Jack Sparrow:
1. I still have classes. BOOOOOOOOO.
2. The movie is NOT ACTUALLY PLAYING WITHIN 30 MILES OF HERE. Seriously. Remind me not to actually LIVE in the godforsaken middle-of-nowhere.

Fortunately, though we are miles and miles from real civilization, we do have...the Internet. And the Internet, through the tireless work of committed nerd-thieves, has ILLEGAL MOVIES.

Let's all pause and enjoy the delicious irony of pirating a movie about a pirate.

Anyway, the illegal files aren't quite available yet (but there is some ASSHOLE skeeving around the torrent networks trying to pass off a renamed copy of "Naked Sorority Pillowfight Vol. IV"--nice try. Also, rename the FILE and not just the TORRENT. Duh.) But after the juvilile fakes run their course, the movie will be available for download.

Assuming I don't get sued out of my mind...do I watch it? Or do I wait to actually get to see it in a theater? Because the theater experience, even in its $3 dollar bottle of water screaming children douchebags talking on cell phones glory is INFINITELY better than watching a jerky, out-of-focus, people walking in front of the camera bootleg.

Hmmm. Ok, decision: I will resist the cams. But if the telesyncs or DVD rips come out before I get home--I'm Jack Sparrowing it all the way.

NEWSFLASH

OH. MY. GOD.

THE AWESOME ROOMMATE HAS HAD A BLOG THIS WHOLE TIME!!!!!

AND SHE WON'T TELL ME WHERE IT IS!

What if she's been blogging about me blogging? Because now I'm blogging about her blogging abou me blogging. WE COULD HIT AN INFINITE LOOP HERE, PEOPLE. I MUST FIND THIS BLOG.

*off to IP-trace*

*and to stop The Awesome Roommate from cackling evily*

*except i don't know how to do that because she can kick my ass*

Currently cringing

DO NOT read the LiveJournal you posted in during high school. Just....don't.


/well some of it is kind of funny
//and some of it is kind of caffeinated
///and a lot of it is kind of weird
////OK FINE, it's EXACTLY LIKE THIS. Happy?

Unfair standards

If we have a group of attractive women who have...imbibed JUST A BIT of liquor, at least two of them will probably, at some point during the evening, make out. This provides excellent photo opportunities, not only of the luscious-lip-locking ladies BUT ALSO of the expressions of any men who happen to be around. Priceless. (No, I can't post the photos, they'll kill me.)

Unfortunately, this situation is rarely reversed. Intoxicated men only want to, rather predictably, make out with women. Which they want to do all the time when they're sober anyway, so WHAT'S THE DAMN POINT? Can't the girls get something interesting to watch here?

I WANT A SHOW, DAMMIT.

Eeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Guys may be assholes, but girls?

ARE BITCHES.

The end!

There is a reason this is called "I Believe in COFFE" and not "I Believe in Energy Drinks"

And that's because I DON'T believe in energy drinks because they fuck you up goooooooooooood. They mess with your BRAIN. And stuff. And it's kind of like existing off ina very far away bubble while time flows in beautiful, yet shaky colors in front of you.

Those of you who've guessed that I may be under the influence of one of these certain vile liquids, you win the right to feel important for two seconds. Not three. jUst two.

But seriously? THE COLORS. I CAN SEE THROUGH THE COSMOS. CHANNELING BILLY PILGRIM HERE, PEOPLE. Also, I think I'm going to puke.

So. Enviga. NOT A GOOD IDEA. First, there's the whole fact that they actually taste good. Seems like a positive right? WRONG. Most energy drinks taste kind of like dishwater fluid after you used it to hose down a skunk who slept on a bed of acidic nuclear waste. This forces you to slow your consumption and prevents you from OVERLOADING YOUR SYSTEM IN FORTY-FIVE SECONDS OF ANDVANCED GULPING BEFORE LECTURE STARTS.

Anyway. The tasting good leads to the overloading which leads to the "I have small, uncomfortable insects in my pants or am having a petit mal seizure" effect, which is...awkward, shall we say. BUT shaking BURNS CALORIES.

And then we come to the really egregious part of this beverage. It claims to have NEGATIVE CALORIES.

Really.

No, I've never heard of the, oh SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS OR ANYTHING. Sheesh.

Ok, my brain is obviously fuzzy, but here's the short version:

Calories are related to the bond energy between the atoms and monomers that make up your food. Protein and sugars have the same number of bonds per molecular weight. One gram protein/sugar = 4 calories. (Which are actually kilocalories, but i'm not going there. Google loves you.)

Fats have lots and LOTS of bonds. Saturated fats have even more bonds. Trans fats have kinda funky bonds, again, worship the Google. But basically bonds = ENERGY.

But Caffeinegirl, you're saying to yourselves. Isn't everything made up of atoms? With energy in their chemical bonds? So why isn't everything food

Ah, I say, this is where the thinking splits. In the scientific world, it is generally accepted that humans evolved to process certain kinds of organic matter. We have enzymes and metabolic processes that can deal with carbohydrates. Cellulose? Not so much. Don't eat grass, or you'll starve to death. Though both are made of of glucosaccharides, the structure on the molecular level is different. (We take advantage of different sugar structures to make zero-calorie artificial sweeteners, btw). It was evolutionarily advantageous for us to be able to process certain kinds of matter, i.e., food.

Now, if you live in Kansas, please ignore everything I just said. Obviously, an intelligent designer said LET THERE BE PEOPLE and there were people. Then he said LET THERE BE LOTS OF TASTY FOOD, especially these things called apples because I'm planning to screw with these humans later. Right.

So, in summary:
1. All matter has chemical bonds
2. The human digestive can break down SOME kinds of matter and harness the chemical bond energy.
3. Kansas is kind of fucked-up.

Therefore: Stuff you put in your mouth has potential energy. If its of the kind compatible with the human digestive system, it has positive calories. If it is of the less compatible, more ornery kind--zero calories. Essentially, nothing can have negative calories. Unless--hmm, my physics knowledge is still JUST A TAD shaky, BUT, if you had some kind of wacko matter that went around destroying bonds in OTHER, already consumed matter, you woudl have negative calories. YOu know what matter breaking bonds of other matter sounds like? IT SOUNDS LIKE NUCLEAR WASTE, PEOPLE. So, eat a nice missle for lunch and let me know how it goes.

Anyway, the logic that Coke is attempting to use to market this stuff has to do with not nuclear waste but with rate of metablism. The rate at which you BURN calroies taht you have already taken in can be affected by any number of factors, including but not limited to: age, overall endocrinology, type of food consumed, amount of sleep, level of activity, number of tiny microscopic gnomes living in your cells, and how many socks you lost in the laundry last Thrusday.

In this case, it has been shown that grean tea = boosted metabolsim. How much? YOUR MILAGE MAY VARY. It is seriously impossible to pin down every factor that could possibly affect your metabolism and how much it will do so in an individual. EVERYTHING you consume affecs your rate of metabolsim in some way! But we don't know how. That's why the convention is just to label how much energy is in the food, and we leave it up to the consumer to determine how much energy they need. Which we apaprently aren't very good at but hey, McNUGGETS!

Basically, we COULD get into how much each food affects your metablism, but it would bmean that a bag of potato chips would have to come with the nutrition facts not printed convenitently on the bag, but with a supplementary encyclopedia-length document. Which, frankly, woud suck.

And this is why Enviga is stuipd. I seem to remmebr that it was REALLY IMIPROTANT for me to establish this point when I started writing this, but now...I think the Enviga's wearing off. Oh well. I'll be fine.

Plus, I know that in my room, there's 2 doubleshots int he fridge.

Note: I didn't post this at the time of writing. Upon reviewing it, however, I decided that the typos/generall nonsense was funny. Or I was too lazy to spellcheck. Your call.

Passing melodrama

End-of-year banquet for the newspaper staff. The atomsphere is hard to pin down, impossible for a news writer to grab in a one-sentence lead. It's at a country club, fifteen minutes away, so we convene, girls picking delicately through the mud in white heels, and wait for the transportation.

The ride turns out to be a yellow school bus. We're dressed up enough for someone to call it "the ultimate ghetto prom ride," and it is a bit like prom, the news team not quite mixing with the editorial writers, and the sports reporters chilling in the back of the bus. It's almost split boy-girl--or is it men-women--mostly because the cool kids have cars and are already there.

There is pretty, manicured, and it feels like someone is going to yell at you not to touch. But there is no one to chastise, because we are the ones who paid for the facility, and there are no chaperones to dodge. There are legitimate adults, but they are alumni, long-ago reporters, and they are our guests. We invited them.

The cocktail hour stretches awkwardly into two, and those of us forced to sip Shirley Temples are bored. Martinis. Diet Sprites. Victoria's boyfriend is a senior and he slips her an Armeretto Sour.

Dinner is broken up by "remarks" and "acknowledgements," by us, to us, but John Mitchell is drunk and too loud in the back. William Barnard speaks. His biggest story in college was about a discrepancy in the budget for the Board of Trustees. He works now for the Washington Post and saw Watergate unfold live. We ask him questions. I do not.

We're impatient now, because it's after 10 and things are happening on campus. I ride the bus home sitting next to a girl, Caitlin. My age. Studies Government, one of my many majors. We discuss immigration reform and the possible right-wing bias in the Public Policy deparment. We agree that what passes for right-wing here is left of moderate in Middle America, and that Professor Milne's fixation on Hilary Clinton is indiciative of his socialist tendencies.

I change out of my white heels at home and put on a halter top and a piece of denim cloth. Someone has pot for a change, and the frat is smokier than usual. The amount of alchohol on the floor is at about a normal level, and the amount of alchohol in people's systems is obviously too high. The bar, set up on what used to be a pong table, is out of rum. I decline substitutions. An arguement breaks out over a bad serve in Beirut. Caitlin is one of the players, eyes-half closed, leaning on her parnter for support. She does not see me.

I ditch my friends, leave for the relative quiet of the dorms. I sleep in my clothes and barely wake up the next day in time to give a tour to prospective students. Their parents compliment me at the end. I am "professional."

Am I? Perhaps that's what it is, hidng the disorganization and confusion long enough to smile your way through a bullshit presentation. Pretending you know the answers.

I always assumed that the grown-ups knew the answers. As if someone had written them down in a book and everyone had read it. My copy seems to have been lost in the mail.

But my age still ends in "-teen," so I think I can get away with faking it for a little while longer.