WELCOME TO MICHIGAN
First, the West Nile fever season here is really, really short. Ditto, malaria and any other dread disease carried by mosquitoes. The bad news is that you'll have to grow accustomed to hash brown potatoes. Grits end at Chillicothe, Missouri. You no longer have to say "y'all", the most worthless expression in the English language. When you call your dog, for instance, just say "come". You don't have to say "y'all come".
As mechanics, you'll have a field day taking care of your car from now until spring (late spring, that is, for early spring is not spring, it is really late winter). Remember that old weather adage, "April showers bring May plowers."
Sell your car.
A Georgia car will not survive here.
Your car will freeze to death before Halloween. Buy a used car. If you buy a new car it will look like a used car before they can dig it out of the display lot at the car dealership.
At first, you may think snow is pretty. Snow is not pretty. By December you will feel as if you are living in a black-and-white movie. And there is a lot of snow. Deep snow. Deep snow that doesn't go away. The reason Northwest Airlines paints the tails on its planes red is so they can find the damned things.
You'll find new loves here. One of them will be underwear that goes all the way down to your ankles. Any underwear above the ankles is considered lingerie.
A few things you may not know:
Beer freezes.
A constipated dog is a good dog.
Ice fishing is a form of mental illness.
Sunrise and Sunset are roughly an hour apart.
Jumper cables make an excellent wedding gift.
You'll look forward to slush.
Kleenex is covered by your medical insurance. Y
ou must be aware that, contrary to southern cuisine, there is no Michigan cuisine. If it's dead, eat it. When you pack to come to Michigan, you need only to bring one short-sleeved shirt and that's only in case you want to fly back home for vacation. Short-sleeved shirts are handed down here from generation to generation. The short-sleeved shirt season here begins July 26 and is pretty much wrapped up by 3:30 on the 28th.
You will have to change your allegiances to professional sports teams. Doing the tomahawk chop simply will not play here. People will think you're merely scraping your windshield. We play a game here called hockey as well. Hockey coaches will kidnap your children before they even start school, so beware. They'll return them in April. As for baseball, we never know if we have a team or not. Neither do we care.
WELCOME TO MICHIGAN
Monday, November 11, 2002
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
Errant Strap-ons
Yep, that's right folks. We've got a renegade strap-on in the building (Currently taking refuge in my Hot Topic bag). How'd it get there? Glad you asked.
It all started innocently enough, believe it or not... Rae was going to come over tonight, help me revamp my resume so I don't have to go down into the dungeon any more for the militant lesbian femi-nazis. Kyle was complaining at lunch that his trip to NYC had been cancelled, and so he wanted to go out and spend some $$. "Take me to a movie" cried the Kyle. Easy enough. I knew Rae'd be up for it because there are so many good movies out that she wanted to see. So! We -Kyle, Rae, Tom and I- decided to go see The Ring (which scared the shit out of me. I've got just 5 little words for you people.. "I don't have a tv"). I also had to stop by the mall to get some stuff to complete my halloween costume (I'm not tellin' what it is, either!) so on our way out to the mall, I mention we're passing Perscilla's which is one of the local -and the best- sex shop around. So of course we have to make a little side-trip. We were dicking around in there and Rae mentions to Kyle ...something... about the gift bags which are all wrapped up as a "surprise" of some sort. He decides to go ahead and grab one.. so we get in the car and there's no way I'm driving anywhere without seeing what's in there. We've got a penis-extender, a bottle of "sex sugar", some penis lotion and some other assorted stuff...and then out comes "The Strap-on." Yeah, you heard me right. In the gift bag for men, mind you, there's a huge fuck-off strap-on dildo. We all about peed our pants, seeing that thing.
Of course, it ended up riding in the back window all the way to the mall and staring at people while we were inside. More jokes ensued on the way to the movie...which was terrific, I might add. So on the way home, we're all laughing like there's no tomorrow, trying to figure out what the hell Kyle's going to do with a strap-on. Finally it's decided that I should give it a home... right. Like I could use it for anything except my halloween costume. Ugh that'd be bad. On the other hand, Kyle suggested that since Rae doesn't have a costume yet, she could use the strap-on (who has yet to be named) and be a unicorn... not a totally bad idea.
Now...the question that's begging to be asked "But Jessica...what are you going to do with it?"
Good fucking question. I suppose I could always take Rae's suggestion and put it on someone's pillow but that's just mean. After all, I don't want to start making enemies on the floor after just half a semester. And did I forget to mention that Kyle made us each eat somet of that sex sugar before we went into the theater? Yeah...thanks Kyle.
It all started innocently enough, believe it or not... Rae was going to come over tonight, help me revamp my resume so I don't have to go down into the dungeon any more for the militant lesbian femi-nazis. Kyle was complaining at lunch that his trip to NYC had been cancelled, and so he wanted to go out and spend some $$. "Take me to a movie" cried the Kyle. Easy enough. I knew Rae'd be up for it because there are so many good movies out that she wanted to see. So! We -Kyle, Rae, Tom and I- decided to go see The Ring (which scared the shit out of me. I've got just 5 little words for you people.. "I don't have a tv"). I also had to stop by the mall to get some stuff to complete my halloween costume (I'm not tellin' what it is, either!) so on our way out to the mall, I mention we're passing Perscilla's which is one of the local -and the best- sex shop around. So of course we have to make a little side-trip. We were dicking around in there and Rae mentions to Kyle ...something... about the gift bags which are all wrapped up as a "surprise" of some sort. He decides to go ahead and grab one.. so we get in the car and there's no way I'm driving anywhere without seeing what's in there. We've got a penis-extender, a bottle of "sex sugar", some penis lotion and some other assorted stuff...and then out comes "The Strap-on." Yeah, you heard me right. In the gift bag for men, mind you, there's a huge fuck-off strap-on dildo. We all about peed our pants, seeing that thing.
Of course, it ended up riding in the back window all the way to the mall and staring at people while we were inside. More jokes ensued on the way to the movie...which was terrific, I might add. So on the way home, we're all laughing like there's no tomorrow, trying to figure out what the hell Kyle's going to do with a strap-on. Finally it's decided that I should give it a home... right. Like I could use it for anything except my halloween costume. Ugh that'd be bad. On the other hand, Kyle suggested that since Rae doesn't have a costume yet, she could use the strap-on (who has yet to be named) and be a unicorn... not a totally bad idea.
Now...the question that's begging to be asked "But Jessica...what are you going to do with it?"
Good fucking question. I suppose I could always take Rae's suggestion and put it on someone's pillow but that's just mean. After all, I don't want to start making enemies on the floor after just half a semester. And did I forget to mention that Kyle made us each eat somet of that sex sugar before we went into the theater? Yeah...thanks Kyle.
Wednesday, October 2, 2002
Militant Lesbian Femi-Nazis
It's test week for us here at Moo U so I've been trying to study, with no thanks to Tom, Kyle and Keesha and Chassy. Tom gave me The Sims to load on my computer while Kyle insists on making me eat even when I'm not hungry...not to mention Keesha and Chassy have me all hyped up to get a tattoo that I absolutely do not have the cha-ching to pay for. Eh, at any rate, this is the tattoo I like... it means "rabbit" which, in case you're daft and haven't noticed, is my nickname. So that's that.
I still fucking hate my job... and as I was alone in the office yesterday, I decided it would be interesting to snoop around. So, between answering the phone and making a new form to fill out when you check out a video (ranting on that in a bit), I found a cannister above the sink which reads "cookies" of some flavor....I didn't really look, though. Thinking "hey, I'm hungry and they don't pay me enough for me to go downstairs and buy a goddamned bag of breadsticks..... I'll just eat these," I open the cannister and thrust my greedy little fingers in there only to find........(wait for it....)
Condoms?
That's right, boys and girls. Apparently the militant feminist lesbians think it necessary to keep a serious armory of condoms above the sink. I can't quite tell you why but that's what the entire cannister was full of.
Now in case you couldn't tell I'm a very non-confrontational person. Also, I have a slight case of kleptomania (stealing shit).... So when my hatred for said lesbians took over and told my kleptomania "Hell, baby...rob 'em blind" there was, needless to say, quite a bulge in my jeans pocket. The sadest part is, these condoms are sitting here in my drawer, staring at me (yes they do that)... and I haven't even barely made a dent in the Lesbians' stash of naughty rubber. Still, the gratification of having taken something valuable(?) from them makes me kind of smile. I showed Tom... I think his jaw hit the floor. . . and I told him he could get me a fishbowl for them for my birthday.
Ok, so back to ranting about the making a new form for to be checking out the videos with. Now, one would think that on the "Forms" disk in the office, under "Forms" folder, you would find a file that was labeled "Video check-out form" or something, yes? Right! So I click on said file, only to find that it's not at all what I'm looking for and even worse, it's got nothing to do with checking out videos. A little disgruntled, I run the A: on the start menu and find that there are a bazillion folders in this damned disk....and searching the a: for "video form" gives me, and I shit you not, 29 files. What the fuck, right? I have to go through them all, regardless because I have to find the most recently edited version. Deleting as I go, I finally click the last one only to find that it too (as did the rest) has nothing to do with checking out fucking videos..
Damned lesbian femi-nazis...
So I go through the whole disk and finally find what I'm looking for under the file named .....(wait for it again......)
Thingey.
I'm not vague.
I suppose it was just their little test to see how completely frustrated they could make me.
It worked, girls...
I still fucking hate my job... and as I was alone in the office yesterday, I decided it would be interesting to snoop around. So, between answering the phone and making a new form to fill out when you check out a video (ranting on that in a bit), I found a cannister above the sink which reads "cookies" of some flavor....I didn't really look, though. Thinking "hey, I'm hungry and they don't pay me enough for me to go downstairs and buy a goddamned bag of breadsticks..... I'll just eat these," I open the cannister and thrust my greedy little fingers in there only to find........(wait for it....)
Condoms?
That's right, boys and girls. Apparently the militant feminist lesbians think it necessary to keep a serious armory of condoms above the sink. I can't quite tell you why but that's what the entire cannister was full of.
Now in case you couldn't tell I'm a very non-confrontational person. Also, I have a slight case of kleptomania (stealing shit).... So when my hatred for said lesbians took over and told my kleptomania "Hell, baby...rob 'em blind" there was, needless to say, quite a bulge in my jeans pocket. The sadest part is, these condoms are sitting here in my drawer, staring at me (yes they do that)... and I haven't even barely made a dent in the Lesbians' stash of naughty rubber. Still, the gratification of having taken something valuable(?) from them makes me kind of smile. I showed Tom... I think his jaw hit the floor. . . and I told him he could get me a fishbowl for them for my birthday.
Ok, so back to ranting about the making a new form for to be checking out the videos with. Now, one would think that on the "Forms" disk in the office, under "Forms" folder, you would find a file that was labeled "Video check-out form" or something, yes? Right! So I click on said file, only to find that it's not at all what I'm looking for and even worse, it's got nothing to do with checking out videos. A little disgruntled, I run the A: on the start menu and find that there are a bazillion folders in this damned disk....and searching the a: for "video form" gives me, and I shit you not, 29 files. What the fuck, right? I have to go through them all, regardless because I have to find the most recently edited version. Deleting as I go, I finally click the last one only to find that it too (as did the rest) has nothing to do with checking out fucking videos..
Damned lesbian femi-nazis...
So I go through the whole disk and finally find what I'm looking for under the file named .....(wait for it again......)
Thingey.
I'm not vague.
I suppose it was just their little test to see how completely frustrated they could make me.
It worked, girls...
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Squirrel Task Force
I've decided that the squirrels are out to get me. After much deliberation and study, I've determined that they have a secret organization dedicated to trying to frickin' kill me. Not just me, though... it seems Keesha has the same problem. Let me illuminate.
I was crossing the road on my bike. I was being good, so I had a little walking man sign and everything, when all of a sudden I hear the distinct sound of a deisel engine plowing straight toward me. Some asshole cowboy in his Dodge Ram decided it was his turn to mow over a pedestiran. Of course, I swerved (like ya do) and as I'm looking back, cursing him my brain goes "hey...you should be looking where you're going."
Being that my brain is usually correct when it says things like that, I turned back around only to see a cute little tufty-eared squirrel in the middle of the road, heading straight for my tire. Needless to say this is bad, so I swerve again and as I'm looking backward, blinking at the odd noise the squirrel is making at me, my brain once more intercedes "Hey, idiot... looking forward, remember?". Well I turn around just in time to see chest....and then asphalt. Great.
So as this poor guy is apologizing to me for...me running into him, he's helping me up and trying his damnedest not to laugh his ass off (understandably). Once I'm up and examining my scraped arm, he lets the one-liner go. "Thought that squirrel had you for sure..."
Thanks, Buddy.
So I was so frazzled by the entire squirrel episode that I was about ten minutes late for work. I came in to "You can't wear that scarf on your head. We need you in the back, come on." A little startled and just a bit pissed, I stumbled back to the only computer upon which I can do my web work. Apparently they just couldn't wait to put on an announcement and so they tried to do it without me. When asked why they couldn't just wait until I got there, they replied with a rather frustrated tone "Well you don't come in 'till now!" Right. And the few hours would have hurt? Aside from putting on the announcements they managed to fuck-tard the entire web site. Why? Well the moron who tried doing my job renamed the file for the home page. Ah-DUH! Like you couldn't make the synopsies in your brain fire more slowly? What the hell did you think was going to happen!?
I was crossing the road on my bike. I was being good, so I had a little walking man sign and everything, when all of a sudden I hear the distinct sound of a deisel engine plowing straight toward me. Some asshole cowboy in his Dodge Ram decided it was his turn to mow over a pedestiran. Of course, I swerved (like ya do) and as I'm looking back, cursing him my brain goes "hey...you should be looking where you're going."
Being that my brain is usually correct when it says things like that, I turned back around only to see a cute little tufty-eared squirrel in the middle of the road, heading straight for my tire. Needless to say this is bad, so I swerve again and as I'm looking backward, blinking at the odd noise the squirrel is making at me, my brain once more intercedes "Hey, idiot... looking forward, remember?". Well I turn around just in time to see chest....and then asphalt. Great.
So as this poor guy is apologizing to me for...me running into him, he's helping me up and trying his damnedest not to laugh his ass off (understandably). Once I'm up and examining my scraped arm, he lets the one-liner go. "Thought that squirrel had you for sure..."
Thanks, Buddy.
So I was so frazzled by the entire squirrel episode that I was about ten minutes late for work. I came in to "You can't wear that scarf on your head. We need you in the back, come on." A little startled and just a bit pissed, I stumbled back to the only computer upon which I can do my web work. Apparently they just couldn't wait to put on an announcement and so they tried to do it without me. When asked why they couldn't just wait until I got there, they replied with a rather frustrated tone "Well you don't come in 'till now!" Right. And the few hours would have hurt? Aside from putting on the announcements they managed to fuck-tard the entire web site. Why? Well the moron who tried doing my job renamed the file for the home page. Ah-DUH! Like you couldn't make the synopsies in your brain fire more slowly? What the hell did you think was going to happen!?
Thursday, September 5, 2002
The Sax Man
My Papa was a sax man for many years, playing everywhere from the Elks Lodge to the illustrious Grand Hotel up on Mackinac Island. He started young, maybe 4 or 5 years old under the guidance of his (strict wasn't the word for it) father and his love for music just kept on growing. He was the sort of person that made you feel completely at ease... like you'd known him for years and you could talk to him about anything. It wasn't any surprise to anyone that he became a traveling salesman... but more importantly, he was a good man with a good heart. He was, as the song says, "Easy to Love."
I can't honestly say he was my first musical influence but he surely was my most prominent one. I can remember when I was young and he wasn't sick yet... we'd go downstairs into the basement and he'd grab his sax (tenor, if you cared) and hand me his claves or his maracas and we'd have a jam session. He left that sax to me. It's in mint-condition. An old Selmer, straight from Paris... Ugh... even now as I'm thinking about this, I'm crying. God in heaven I miss him. He taught me everything I know about the soul of music, and more importantly, the soul of the human.
Why all this sappiness, you ask? Well, tonight I went to Jambalaya's with Rae and her mom and her mom's friend(s) for her birthday finally. They have live music nightly there and tonight it was a 30-40's night, so there were swing dancers and everything. The name on the playbill sounded so familiar I couldn't discount it. Somehow "Sherm" sounded so ... so much like Papa I couldn't stand it. After much deliberation, I decided to go accost the poor, old man who was at the bar hassleing the tender. Looked like a good time to sneak in.
I tapped his shoulder and started out on how this would sound strange, and he simply smiled and took a seat, with those dark brown, expectant eyes. He knew. Ugh. I'm crying more. At any rate, he knew. He kind of smiled and tipped his head to the side and tried not to smirk as I told him that I thought I recognized his name... and that I thought that my grandfather, Woodrow had played with him some years ago. He nodded a few times and sipped his red wine as those eyes bored into me. Needless to say I was a little nervous, accosting a stranger like this. At any rate, he told me that he'd been playing for nigh 60 years and though he couldn't quite place the name, it was indeed familiar. Then it hit him. A "twinkle, twinkle" in the old man's eye appeared... "Woody? Woody Scheidt?" That was it... on the nose. My papa...Woody had indeed played with him!
It's so great to have someone tell you that your relatives are amazing. He regaled me with a few short stories about their exploits...then leaned back almost like he was sizing me up.
"What sax do you play?" He said with a hidden smile there on his face. How could he have known? A little shocked, I confessed I play tenor. He merely nodded and smiled as if he'd expected that exact answer. I told him that I had Papa's sax and he blinked a few times, a little surprised.
"Don't ever get rid of that horn... it's got too many memories" was his only response. As if I'd ever think of giving away the only thing that I have to remind me of my beloved papa.
After another few short stories, he paused and half-laughed as he shook his head. He asked me if I was studying music at MSU and I unfortunately had to tell him no. He made mention of the saxophone professor here... and that he'd given him a near-priceless sax... and that I wasn't to tell anyone about it in detail. He laughed softly, then and nodded a few more times as I proclaimed the sax. prof's greatness. I've heard him many times in concert and each time he was simply flawless...
"Don't ever say that. You can travel the world and never find someone with the same fingerprint. Music is just the same. No one else plays like you, no one is better or worse. We're all works in progress." He smiled knowingly at that. Man that struck home. In high school I rarely if ever practiced. Seems I have a knack for music, I guess... but his little smile... it gave away that he knew I didn't practice and furthermore that he didn't care. He asked my name, then and I half-smiled through this religious experience and gave it along with my hand.
"Jessica," Sherm said with that same knowing smile "You've made Woody very proud. Don't forget it." I was astounded. I distinctly remember my Papa's last words... That I was his "best girlfriend" and that I'd made him "very proud....and don't you forget it." Needless to say I was speechless, there with my hand in his worn, arthretic one. What could I say? He seemed to know I was on the verge of tears because he stood with a bit of effort and grinned, those eyes twinkling
"I've got to get back to the stage." he murmured "Break's over. You'd think that with lung cancer and emphazima, I'd quit this gig." He paused and shook his head, laughing. "No chance, Doc... They're always trying to get me to quit. I say, what's there to live for if you can't do what you love?"
My answer, Sherm...
Not a damned thing.
I can't honestly say he was my first musical influence but he surely was my most prominent one. I can remember when I was young and he wasn't sick yet... we'd go downstairs into the basement and he'd grab his sax (tenor, if you cared) and hand me his claves or his maracas and we'd have a jam session. He left that sax to me. It's in mint-condition. An old Selmer, straight from Paris... Ugh... even now as I'm thinking about this, I'm crying. God in heaven I miss him. He taught me everything I know about the soul of music, and more importantly, the soul of the human.
Why all this sappiness, you ask? Well, tonight I went to Jambalaya's with Rae and her mom and her mom's friend(s) for her birthday finally. They have live music nightly there and tonight it was a 30-40's night, so there were swing dancers and everything. The name on the playbill sounded so familiar I couldn't discount it. Somehow "Sherm" sounded so ... so much like Papa I couldn't stand it. After much deliberation, I decided to go accost the poor, old man who was at the bar hassleing the tender. Looked like a good time to sneak in.
I tapped his shoulder and started out on how this would sound strange, and he simply smiled and took a seat, with those dark brown, expectant eyes. He knew. Ugh. I'm crying more. At any rate, he knew. He kind of smiled and tipped his head to the side and tried not to smirk as I told him that I thought I recognized his name... and that I thought that my grandfather, Woodrow had played with him some years ago. He nodded a few times and sipped his red wine as those eyes bored into me. Needless to say I was a little nervous, accosting a stranger like this. At any rate, he told me that he'd been playing for nigh 60 years and though he couldn't quite place the name, it was indeed familiar. Then it hit him. A "twinkle, twinkle" in the old man's eye appeared... "Woody? Woody Scheidt?" That was it... on the nose. My papa...Woody had indeed played with him!
It's so great to have someone tell you that your relatives are amazing. He regaled me with a few short stories about their exploits...then leaned back almost like he was sizing me up.
"What sax do you play?" He said with a hidden smile there on his face. How could he have known? A little shocked, I confessed I play tenor. He merely nodded and smiled as if he'd expected that exact answer. I told him that I had Papa's sax and he blinked a few times, a little surprised.
"Don't ever get rid of that horn... it's got too many memories" was his only response. As if I'd ever think of giving away the only thing that I have to remind me of my beloved papa.
After another few short stories, he paused and half-laughed as he shook his head. He asked me if I was studying music at MSU and I unfortunately had to tell him no. He made mention of the saxophone professor here... and that he'd given him a near-priceless sax... and that I wasn't to tell anyone about it in detail. He laughed softly, then and nodded a few more times as I proclaimed the sax. prof's greatness. I've heard him many times in concert and each time he was simply flawless...
"Don't ever say that. You can travel the world and never find someone with the same fingerprint. Music is just the same. No one else plays like you, no one is better or worse. We're all works in progress." He smiled knowingly at that. Man that struck home. In high school I rarely if ever practiced. Seems I have a knack for music, I guess... but his little smile... it gave away that he knew I didn't practice and furthermore that he didn't care. He asked my name, then and I half-smiled through this religious experience and gave it along with my hand.
"Jessica," Sherm said with that same knowing smile "You've made Woody very proud. Don't forget it." I was astounded. I distinctly remember my Papa's last words... That I was his "best girlfriend" and that I'd made him "very proud....and don't you forget it." Needless to say I was speechless, there with my hand in his worn, arthretic one. What could I say? He seemed to know I was on the verge of tears because he stood with a bit of effort and grinned, those eyes twinkling
"I've got to get back to the stage." he murmured "Break's over. You'd think that with lung cancer and emphazima, I'd quit this gig." He paused and shook his head, laughing. "No chance, Doc... They're always trying to get me to quit. I say, what's there to live for if you can't do what you love?"
My answer, Sherm...
Not a damned thing.
Sunday, August 18, 2002
Teen Killed in Freak Oppossum Accident
Ok, now for those of you who don't have a grasp as to where I live... I live in a place where people stop to help other people who've broken down on the side of the road. Killing a duck in the city is a $500 fine, and spitting on the sidewalk is prohibited (and enforced). It's a small town and I suppose it's good for some people but I swear to god it's driving me crazy. Usually the cops leave us alone for the most part, but things happen now and again that I have to get pulled over and somehow, explain myself.
Case in point, when I was driving my old Grand Am. It was red and it had a dent the size of a small child in the side (thanks to someone....). Apparently there'd been a hit and run earlier in the evening and so on my way home from Rae's house -which was a grand total of 10 miles at that point- I got stopped three times. Apparently the hit-and-run was done by a little red car ...and they'd hit a tree trying to get away with their right side. Prime suspect, of course. I had cops chasing me for a week afterward. Now I haven't been stopped in nearly two years now. It's been a good run, all in all and a lot of it has to do with the fact that I'm no longer driving a bright fire-engine red car. Mine is blue now and cops don't seem to want to stop me for some reason. Likeable enough situation for me. That is, until Friday night.
I was coming home from Dan's house late on Friday night...and I wasn't speeding. Repeat, for one of maybe three times in my life, I wasn't speeding. What happens? I get stopped. Big frickin' surprise. Just my luck, right? I'm having a good run of things and WHAM there's the authorities to screw things up. What's even more amazing, though, is that it was a sheriff which is a bit more freakish since it usually takes provocation (like doing a pagan sacrifice to the gods of "kill cops" on the hood of their cars) to get them to pull you over. At any rate, I pull over and wait 'till he gets up to my window to (politely) ask what the hell he thought he was doing, pulling me over. He tried the whole "you've got a tail light out" stunt which I know is total BS since I think I'd know if I had a goddamned light out. Dan would have waved me back into the driveway. Growling, I produce the lisence and proof of insurance that the idiot sheriff wanted (who shall heretofore be called "one bullet Barney"). Well, needless to say all that checked out. No problem. He then proceeds to ask me to get out of the car! I was only going 45 mph!
"Jeezus frickin' christ on a pogostick" I'm thinking to myself "What else does he want, a full-body cavity search?" So I'm out of the car and he pulls out his breathalizer...so I blow into it and I'm blowing negative numbers or something because he makes me do it again "just to make sure." All of a sudden I see something moving there out of the corner of my eye... and I look and it's a frickin' opossum! Now, not only are they just ugly, they're creepy, disease-ridden and ...creepy! Seriously! They look like they're smiling that creepy little smile that the villans' henchmen always smiled in the old b-movies. That's some scary crap right there. Now tell me that's not scary! So what does a cool, level-headed person such as myself do in such a situation? I scream like bigfoot and the swamp thing are coming after me (did I mention I have a great b-movie scream?) and my voice is the only thing that stands between me and certain death.
Needless to say, both Sheriff and Rodent are a bit puzzled at this point. The hairy rat-thing stops and tip its head to one side as I'm clamoring to get into my car... and one-bullet Barney here turns, draws and blows the thing into 8 million and three little pieces. What a way to die. Just minding you own freakin' business, trying to eat roadkill off the side of the road and wham some dickhead blows you into a quivering pile of fur and eyeballs.
At this point, all I can say is..."crap." I didn't want to swear in front of the officer but...wow it needed at least a "damn!" or "....fuck". I was just glad I didn't try and run for it (and leave my car? fat chance...). I think I could have ended up like the little ugly thing. A big grease-spot on the pavement, twitching and wheezing until the sheriff decides to finish me off. I can just imagne the headlines now.
"Local Teen Dies in Freak Opossum Accident.Details are still sketchy, but authorites believe that Officer Fife of the Eaton County Sheriff's Department was making a routine traffic stop Saturday morning between the hours of 1 and 2 am. Apparently, out of the bushes a large, rabid opossom allegedly attacked. The driver of the car, a Jessica Backofen (19), was startled and ran "like a boy chased by sharkie-sharkies." Unfortunately, the misguided teen ran directly into the path of fire and was blowin into "8 million and three little pieces. God, it was a horrible mess, really. We had crews out there 'till 6am trying to get the grease stains up off the pavement" says Sheriff Fife." Also, Sheriff Fife notes that the girl was "not drunk, naw, she weren't doin' drugs neither. That was just a big fuggin' opossum. I'd'a been scared too if'n I'd not been good learned by the department to keep my head cold at times like them."Like I said, I love living in a little town.I'm normally quite amused by such things but this incident for some reason just gives me the most grim hopes for the youth of this fair city. They're already potheads, skaters and wannabe G's (we call them J's). What have they got to aspire to? Not a damned thing....just one bullet Barney and his keystone cops. Wonderful.
Case in point, when I was driving my old Grand Am. It was red and it had a dent the size of a small child in the side (thanks to someone....). Apparently there'd been a hit and run earlier in the evening and so on my way home from Rae's house -which was a grand total of 10 miles at that point- I got stopped three times. Apparently the hit-and-run was done by a little red car ...and they'd hit a tree trying to get away with their right side. Prime suspect, of course. I had cops chasing me for a week afterward. Now I haven't been stopped in nearly two years now. It's been a good run, all in all and a lot of it has to do with the fact that I'm no longer driving a bright fire-engine red car. Mine is blue now and cops don't seem to want to stop me for some reason. Likeable enough situation for me. That is, until Friday night.
I was coming home from Dan's house late on Friday night...and I wasn't speeding. Repeat, for one of maybe three times in my life, I wasn't speeding. What happens? I get stopped. Big frickin' surprise. Just my luck, right? I'm having a good run of things and WHAM there's the authorities to screw things up. What's even more amazing, though, is that it was a sheriff which is a bit more freakish since it usually takes provocation (like doing a pagan sacrifice to the gods of "kill cops" on the hood of their cars) to get them to pull you over. At any rate, I pull over and wait 'till he gets up to my window to (politely) ask what the hell he thought he was doing, pulling me over. He tried the whole "you've got a tail light out" stunt which I know is total BS since I think I'd know if I had a goddamned light out. Dan would have waved me back into the driveway. Growling, I produce the lisence and proof of insurance that the idiot sheriff wanted (who shall heretofore be called "one bullet Barney"). Well, needless to say all that checked out. No problem. He then proceeds to ask me to get out of the car! I was only going 45 mph!
"Jeezus frickin' christ on a pogostick" I'm thinking to myself "What else does he want, a full-body cavity search?" So I'm out of the car and he pulls out his breathalizer...so I blow into it and I'm blowing negative numbers or something because he makes me do it again "just to make sure." All of a sudden I see something moving there out of the corner of my eye... and I look and it's a frickin' opossum! Now, not only are they just ugly, they're creepy, disease-ridden and ...creepy! Seriously! They look like they're smiling that creepy little smile that the villans' henchmen always smiled in the old b-movies. That's some scary crap right there. Now tell me that's not scary! So what does a cool, level-headed person such as myself do in such a situation? I scream like bigfoot and the swamp thing are coming after me (did I mention I have a great b-movie scream?) and my voice is the only thing that stands between me and certain death.
Needless to say, both Sheriff and Rodent are a bit puzzled at this point. The hairy rat-thing stops and tip its head to one side as I'm clamoring to get into my car... and one-bullet Barney here turns, draws and blows the thing into 8 million and three little pieces. What a way to die. Just minding you own freakin' business, trying to eat roadkill off the side of the road and wham some dickhead blows you into a quivering pile of fur and eyeballs.
At this point, all I can say is..."crap." I didn't want to swear in front of the officer but...wow it needed at least a "damn!" or "....fuck". I was just glad I didn't try and run for it (and leave my car? fat chance...). I think I could have ended up like the little ugly thing. A big grease-spot on the pavement, twitching and wheezing until the sheriff decides to finish me off. I can just imagne the headlines now.
"Local Teen Dies in Freak Opossum Accident.Details are still sketchy, but authorites believe that Officer Fife of the Eaton County Sheriff's Department was making a routine traffic stop Saturday morning between the hours of 1 and 2 am. Apparently, out of the bushes a large, rabid opossom allegedly attacked. The driver of the car, a Jessica Backofen (19), was startled and ran "like a boy chased by sharkie-sharkies." Unfortunately, the misguided teen ran directly into the path of fire and was blowin into "8 million and three little pieces. God, it was a horrible mess, really. We had crews out there 'till 6am trying to get the grease stains up off the pavement" says Sheriff Fife." Also, Sheriff Fife notes that the girl was "not drunk, naw, she weren't doin' drugs neither. That was just a big fuggin' opossum. I'd'a been scared too if'n I'd not been good learned by the department to keep my head cold at times like them."Like I said, I love living in a little town.I'm normally quite amused by such things but this incident for some reason just gives me the most grim hopes for the youth of this fair city. They're already potheads, skaters and wannabe G's (we call them J's). What have they got to aspire to? Not a damned thing....just one bullet Barney and his keystone cops. Wonderful.
Friday, August 16, 2002
Pain and Religion
Don’t suppose you would care to hear about my rather interesting few days, hm? It all started with Mel. Mel is always good and fun and lovely and caring and compassionate and apologetic, though I can’t quite tell you why she’s forever apologizing…must be bleed-over from my constant apologies. At any rate, she wanted me to come with her to get her ear pierced up there on the thingey…I think they called it the helix. Anyway, it’s up there on the cartilage. So, we went and bought books for school since we were in East Lansing anyway (man that put a hurt on me. $230.93 and that’s without my ATL books). That done, we went and got her thingey pierced. That was relatively cheap, really. Only $45. . . Methinks there’s a piercing in Jessica’s near future. If Mel can do it without whimpering and without crushing my hand I’m sure I can handle it. After all, she has very little pain tolerance (she’s a self-proclaimed wuss, I’m not picking on her) and I’ve got a bit more than “very little.”
Ear pierced, we went to Flat’s Grille (which is OH MY GOD good if you’re looking for something to fill you up and that’s not 8 Million dollars a plate. Thank god for off-campus cheap food) and had a good lunch there. I was gonna go buy my ATL books at Ned’s (since they didn’t have them/couldn’t find them at the SBS) but we opted out of that and just headed for Mel’s house. Once there, she convinced me to spend the night (I was supposed to go to Dan’s house but it turned out all right since he didn’t call anyway. He may have dropped off the face of the earth) and then further convinced me to go to see XXX with her at the theater (again. I’ve already seen it once, as mentioned in another post not too long ago. I’m lazy and I don’t want to try and find it at the moment). That’s fine. Jeff Ballard said he’d give rides. As I remember, Jeff is a nice guy… can’t drive and he’s a little off, but a nice guy.
All the people we picked up were perfectly tolerable until we got into the theater and sat down. Then…they morphed into the people that make me homicidal. Talking/laughing loudly, speaking idiotic phrases when there’s a break in the gun fighting in the movie….they had no tact and even less consideration for others. This makes me not only homicidal but livid. I’d already seen the movie once but let me tell you I didn’t mind seeing Vin without his shirt on more than once. It would have been even better if they’d eaten some Mr. Dog (sorry ‘bout the inside joke there. Once more, if you haven’t seen/heard Eddie Izzard, I implore you. My journal will make so much more sense if you do).As it was, we had to beg to be dropped off at home before they went causing mayhem around Eaton Rapids. Mind you, I don’t know quite how that works, but I’m sure they’d have found something to occupy themselves. Once home, I was of the dead tired variety of lucidness and we went to bed after a bit of talking.
Morning broke on Thursday with me being unable to see anything out of my right eye. Not normally a good thing. Off went the contacts immediately… and it didn’t get better. Ugh. We went out to Hastings (Wesley Woods…a Christian camp where I spent a better part of my adolescent summers) to grab Mel’s dresser and sweatshirt and to drop off her keys. She’d worked there this summer as a lifeguard and I’m pondering going next summer as maintenance. Sure, it won’t pay as much but it’ll be fun…and relaxing…and I’ll loose weight (something I’m sure everyone would like to do at some point in their lives). Ahem! At any rate, we went up there and got her crap and my eye is watering and making me close it the entire way there and back. Everything seems so (green………) bright and even my sunglasses aren’t helping. It feels like I’m staring straight into the sun no matter what I do…so when we get back I decide it’s time to head to the emergency room. No foolin’ around.
Now, let me pause here and tell you just how much I hate hospitals. I think it might stem from the fact that my grandpa (whom I loved more than anything) was in and out of the ICU for nearly 8 years before he finally quit. I hate hospitals. I hate the smell, the look, the frigid temperature, the tension and the sounds of not-well people all around me. I feel like everyone is staring at me and they’re all trying to find something else wrong with me so they can keep me there and torture me. Let’s face it, if I were alone yesterday I’d never have gone. Ever. I would rather be bleeding out the eyes, nose and ears than having to go to the hospital. Even doctor’s offices and clinics are horrible. They make me twitch.
But I had little/no choice, since Mel is a lifeguard and she knew something was wrong. . . so in I go, trying to make light of the situation the entire time. I even tried to joke with the nurse-guy in triage. Of course that went over like a goddamned lead balloon. Apparently he was having a bad day caz he tried to strangle my arm with the blood pressure thingey ( I mean more than usual. He was vicious about it…) and said nothing more than “height? Weight? Allergies?” Right, thanks. Nice fuckin’ bedside manner, asshole. Ahem. Anyway, I went and saw Dr. Gupta who doesn’t speak the English so good… but he was nice and non-threatening. I told him I had eye-boogers and it hurt like a mother and he explained to me what was wrong and what I could do about it…my meds cost a whopping $13… and I was free to go.So then I went with Mel to her grandma’s house in Grand Rapids. It took a little navigating (shoddy navigating, I’ll have you know…not just from Mel, either) but we finally got there. Her grandma is much like the Evil Nanny, only much less “out of it” and less threatening. At any rate, her grandpa reminds me a lot of my beloved papa (the one mentioned earlier in the post) as he’s a dirty old man and quite observant. He’s having problems like my Papa, not emphaziema (spelled incorrectly but I don’t care…maybe Rae can find the right spelling lol), but other bad things. He reminded me so much of Papa that I kinda sorta, ok, really wanted to cry.
I talked my way out of going to church with them (Mel helped of course) since they’re Catholic and I’m fairly sure I’d burst into blue flames should I set foot in a basilica of that sort. Besides that, Mel was debating whether or not Methodists were allowed to take communion once they were confirmed Methodists. I said they weren’t, of course…because I remembered going to mass with my aunt and being REALLY hungry. Needless to say I was a bit angry that because of my faith, I was denied crackers and juice. Ah, the follies of youth. Ahh…there, I feel better. No catholic bashing. I’m a good girl. I believe there’s a divine being somewhere, but I’m not sure if it’s god or Allah or Buddha or Mohamed or Krishna or what. I just think it’s the same thing and everyone’s got their wires crossed. I’m not an anarchist or anything, I’m just not a big fan of organized religion. Either way, that’s that. Ending on a rather philosophical note today. How odd…
Ear pierced, we went to Flat’s Grille (which is OH MY GOD good if you’re looking for something to fill you up and that’s not 8 Million dollars a plate. Thank god for off-campus cheap food) and had a good lunch there. I was gonna go buy my ATL books at Ned’s (since they didn’t have them/couldn’t find them at the SBS) but we opted out of that and just headed for Mel’s house. Once there, she convinced me to spend the night (I was supposed to go to Dan’s house but it turned out all right since he didn’t call anyway. He may have dropped off the face of the earth) and then further convinced me to go to see XXX with her at the theater (again. I’ve already seen it once, as mentioned in another post not too long ago. I’m lazy and I don’t want to try and find it at the moment). That’s fine. Jeff Ballard said he’d give rides. As I remember, Jeff is a nice guy… can’t drive and he’s a little off, but a nice guy.
All the people we picked up were perfectly tolerable until we got into the theater and sat down. Then…they morphed into the people that make me homicidal. Talking/laughing loudly, speaking idiotic phrases when there’s a break in the gun fighting in the movie….they had no tact and even less consideration for others. This makes me not only homicidal but livid. I’d already seen the movie once but let me tell you I didn’t mind seeing Vin without his shirt on more than once. It would have been even better if they’d eaten some Mr. Dog (sorry ‘bout the inside joke there. Once more, if you haven’t seen/heard Eddie Izzard, I implore you. My journal will make so much more sense if you do).As it was, we had to beg to be dropped off at home before they went causing mayhem around Eaton Rapids. Mind you, I don’t know quite how that works, but I’m sure they’d have found something to occupy themselves. Once home, I was of the dead tired variety of lucidness and we went to bed after a bit of talking.
Morning broke on Thursday with me being unable to see anything out of my right eye. Not normally a good thing. Off went the contacts immediately… and it didn’t get better. Ugh. We went out to Hastings (Wesley Woods…a Christian camp where I spent a better part of my adolescent summers) to grab Mel’s dresser and sweatshirt and to drop off her keys. She’d worked there this summer as a lifeguard and I’m pondering going next summer as maintenance. Sure, it won’t pay as much but it’ll be fun…and relaxing…and I’ll loose weight (something I’m sure everyone would like to do at some point in their lives). Ahem! At any rate, we went up there and got her crap and my eye is watering and making me close it the entire way there and back. Everything seems so (green………) bright and even my sunglasses aren’t helping. It feels like I’m staring straight into the sun no matter what I do…so when we get back I decide it’s time to head to the emergency room. No foolin’ around.
Now, let me pause here and tell you just how much I hate hospitals. I think it might stem from the fact that my grandpa (whom I loved more than anything) was in and out of the ICU for nearly 8 years before he finally quit. I hate hospitals. I hate the smell, the look, the frigid temperature, the tension and the sounds of not-well people all around me. I feel like everyone is staring at me and they’re all trying to find something else wrong with me so they can keep me there and torture me. Let’s face it, if I were alone yesterday I’d never have gone. Ever. I would rather be bleeding out the eyes, nose and ears than having to go to the hospital. Even doctor’s offices and clinics are horrible. They make me twitch.
But I had little/no choice, since Mel is a lifeguard and she knew something was wrong. . . so in I go, trying to make light of the situation the entire time. I even tried to joke with the nurse-guy in triage. Of course that went over like a goddamned lead balloon. Apparently he was having a bad day caz he tried to strangle my arm with the blood pressure thingey ( I mean more than usual. He was vicious about it…) and said nothing more than “height? Weight? Allergies?” Right, thanks. Nice fuckin’ bedside manner, asshole. Ahem. Anyway, I went and saw Dr. Gupta who doesn’t speak the English so good… but he was nice and non-threatening. I told him I had eye-boogers and it hurt like a mother and he explained to me what was wrong and what I could do about it…my meds cost a whopping $13… and I was free to go.So then I went with Mel to her grandma’s house in Grand Rapids. It took a little navigating (shoddy navigating, I’ll have you know…not just from Mel, either) but we finally got there. Her grandma is much like the Evil Nanny, only much less “out of it” and less threatening. At any rate, her grandpa reminds me a lot of my beloved papa (the one mentioned earlier in the post) as he’s a dirty old man and quite observant. He’s having problems like my Papa, not emphaziema (spelled incorrectly but I don’t care…maybe Rae can find the right spelling lol), but other bad things. He reminded me so much of Papa that I kinda sorta, ok, really wanted to cry.
I talked my way out of going to church with them (Mel helped of course) since they’re Catholic and I’m fairly sure I’d burst into blue flames should I set foot in a basilica of that sort. Besides that, Mel was debating whether or not Methodists were allowed to take communion once they were confirmed Methodists. I said they weren’t, of course…because I remembered going to mass with my aunt and being REALLY hungry. Needless to say I was a bit angry that because of my faith, I was denied crackers and juice. Ah, the follies of youth. Ahh…there, I feel better. No catholic bashing. I’m a good girl. I believe there’s a divine being somewhere, but I’m not sure if it’s god or Allah or Buddha or Mohamed or Krishna or what. I just think it’s the same thing and everyone’s got their wires crossed. I’m not an anarchist or anything, I’m just not a big fan of organized religion. Either way, that’s that. Ending on a rather philosophical note today. How odd…
Thursday, May 30, 2002
And The Animals Came 2 by 2
It started out like any other day, really. I was early to work, I took a break, bought decorations from Jo Ann Fabrics for my new dorm room (which will be resplendent with retro-beauty! Complete with red, yellow and orange circles, a red boa and a red paper lantern so far… not to mention original artwork by yours truly!) and then came back in for the long 3 hours of the remainder of the work day.
Now, nearing 4:30 pm, my Boss stands up and glances out the door to the hallway…and turns deadly pale. That’s no good…So, I stand up (in my pretty pink and orange skirt and brand new shiny shoes) to look at whatever it was that had caused her to look like that. I thought it might have been another masturbating homeless person but it was something oh so much more disgusting. Ha... now you really wanna know, dont'cha? It was sewage. Yeah.. gross, right? It was flowing..no, it was pouring from the women's bathroom with little pieces of toilet paper floating peacefully by the doorway.
There was a long moment when all I could do ws blink at it before I realized it was coming into the office and there quite honestly nothing we could do about it. We didn't even bother to shut the door. There was a general yell for "shit" which was also was floating in the water, and we all fell to grabbing things from the floor, tugging out power cords and all manner of things that I'm sure were incredibly funny to watch by the students who passed by. Mind you, this has happened once before but not nearly as bad. The flood damage isn't extensive but you can bet your ass that I'm not pleased with having to tromp around in sewage for hours in my brand new shoes trying to push-broom the nasty water away from anything electrical.
And perhaps the worst part about the entire ordeal was that none of the maintainence people were there to take care of it. We had to call them from home, poor boys. We only have one person here at night patroling and he's from a security company. Ugh! God I hate this place sometimes. The best part about the whole situation was Alan, my favorite co-worker. The conversation went like this...
"Hey...Jess?"
Yeah, Alan?
"Um.. There are animals lined up two-by-two outside. Did you want me to go ahead and let 'em in?"
Shut up Alan...
Now, nearing 4:30 pm, my Boss stands up and glances out the door to the hallway…and turns deadly pale. That’s no good…So, I stand up (in my pretty pink and orange skirt and brand new shiny shoes) to look at whatever it was that had caused her to look like that. I thought it might have been another masturbating homeless person but it was something oh so much more disgusting. Ha... now you really wanna know, dont'cha? It was sewage. Yeah.. gross, right? It was flowing..no, it was pouring from the women's bathroom with little pieces of toilet paper floating peacefully by the doorway.
There was a long moment when all I could do ws blink at it before I realized it was coming into the office and there quite honestly nothing we could do about it. We didn't even bother to shut the door. There was a general yell for "shit" which was also was floating in the water, and we all fell to grabbing things from the floor, tugging out power cords and all manner of things that I'm sure were incredibly funny to watch by the students who passed by. Mind you, this has happened once before but not nearly as bad. The flood damage isn't extensive but you can bet your ass that I'm not pleased with having to tromp around in sewage for hours in my brand new shoes trying to push-broom the nasty water away from anything electrical.
And perhaps the worst part about the entire ordeal was that none of the maintainence people were there to take care of it. We had to call them from home, poor boys. We only have one person here at night patroling and he's from a security company. Ugh! God I hate this place sometimes. The best part about the whole situation was Alan, my favorite co-worker. The conversation went like this...
"Hey...Jess?"
Yeah, Alan?
"Um.. There are animals lined up two-by-two outside. Did you want me to go ahead and let 'em in?"
Shut up Alan...
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
Skunks and Why They Should be Avoided
Remember in the Disney movie, Bambi...how cute the little skunkie was? How non-smelly and non-attached to the nose of a big cow-dog he was? Let me tell ya, folks...real life isn't like a Disney feature-length animated film.
The night began like any other, feeding and medicating the dogs and loosing them out into the world to spread their bodily fluids about. The little dog yips, so I let him in the front door and after, oh I dunno, maybe half an hour I sniff....
Sniff....
Sniff....
And then I recognize the smell. By this time, the small dog is twirling around, chasing the ceiling fan.. he's occupied so I go to the front door and bellow for the larger dog...and I hear thud-thud-thud-thud on the porch and she wags her tail as she passes me by and I get a RIPE whiff of exactly what I thought it was...and before I can grab her, she's upstairs, ROLLING ON THE BED!!!
Death to the cow-dog and death to the fact that I had to forcibly pull her (and she's a goodly size) out of her crate and death to the fact that she wouldn't hold still in the tub and death again to the fact that she dislikes her feet getting wet which means a great deal of prancing about in the tub -which also means a great deal of Jessica falling into the stinky dog and now the Jessica smelling like a skunk ass as well!- and mostly death to the fact that she insisted on rubbing herself EVERYWHERE she could before I could actually get her into the tub.
Death to the fact that I have to be out in public, smelling god-awful and looking like hell because I stayed up and washed the dog 29 times because in a house full of soy and rye chips, there isn't one drop of tomato juice to be found. ANYWHERE!!
And, finally...death to being at work and reeking like wet dog and skunk. There's NOTHING worse in the world.
The night began like any other, feeding and medicating the dogs and loosing them out into the world to spread their bodily fluids about. The little dog yips, so I let him in the front door and after, oh I dunno, maybe half an hour I sniff....
Sniff....
Sniff....
And then I recognize the smell. By this time, the small dog is twirling around, chasing the ceiling fan.. he's occupied so I go to the front door and bellow for the larger dog...and I hear thud-thud-thud-thud on the porch and she wags her tail as she passes me by and I get a RIPE whiff of exactly what I thought it was...and before I can grab her, she's upstairs, ROLLING ON THE BED!!!
Death to the cow-dog and death to the fact that I had to forcibly pull her (and she's a goodly size) out of her crate and death to the fact that she wouldn't hold still in the tub and death again to the fact that she dislikes her feet getting wet which means a great deal of prancing about in the tub -which also means a great deal of Jessica falling into the stinky dog and now the Jessica smelling like a skunk ass as well!- and mostly death to the fact that she insisted on rubbing herself EVERYWHERE she could before I could actually get her into the tub.
Death to the fact that I have to be out in public, smelling god-awful and looking like hell because I stayed up and washed the dog 29 times because in a house full of soy and rye chips, there isn't one drop of tomato juice to be found. ANYWHERE!!
And, finally...death to being at work and reeking like wet dog and skunk. There's NOTHING worse in the world.
Friday, May 10, 2002
Juxtopposition
A Fuck-Geo is no good unless you've something monsterous to compare it to. Like oh.. .say... an *Aircraft carrier. Now, I know these are the two ends of the spectrum but a Fuck-Geo and an *Aircraft carrier are still equal parts of the badness. As outlined in the entry about "regining in the fuck-geo" I think you understand why the Fuck-Geo is quite honestly one of the maddening things on the road. On the other hand, the *Aircraft Carrier is just as bad! They swerve, they take up 8 1/2 parking spaces, their drivers are normally too small to even see over the dash, let alone reach the petals, and most importantly... they're normally *Yuppy trash, another thing to add to the World's Most Hated list. Oh yes.. and by the by, how's this for pure evil? On the way back from Cedar Point (America's Roller coast!) we had the unfortunate pain to see a little Fuck-Geo which was indeed just that, though it was a VW (good cars...) with the lisence plate (oh get ready to cry) "USA RULZ" now.. firstly if you're going to show your pride, spell it correctly PLEASE!.. but secondly and I'm begging this time.. do it on an AMERICAN CAR! Christ....
Onward, now, to our last topic. Crossed wires. Sounds a little odd, yes? Well, no doubt.. but I'm convinced that with all this wind, a few birds' wires have been knocked loose or crossed or at the very least, the poor things are having a wretched time trying to navigate around. I was at a stoplight the other day, minding my own business, watching the light like a good girl... and all of a sudden WHAM! Some poor bird's gone and smacked into the stoplight and landed on the car next to me. Now yes, that's a litle scary, but not uncommon from what I hear. Birds continually ram full-speed into the picture window at home, and even on campus at the dorms there's the occasional THUNK but I say it's a conspiracy. That's right. The birds are trying to take over the world! And they're starting with the stars. Remember what happened to Fabio? See? That proves it! They're after us.
*Aircraft Carrier- (n.) 1. A large vehicle, normally referred to as an SUV, which takes up 8 1/2 parking spaces, swerves and is dangerous to drive anywhere other than California. 2. A vehicle, large in measure, which is run only by its own private oilfield and the stupidity of the driver.
*Yuppy Trash (adj.)- To have or to be rich beyond one's wildest dreams and to squander it on a cell phone, a pilot notebook, an Aircraft carrier(see above), and a child whom you send off to boarding school only to strut on company picnics and then to tuck away back in a safe place where he/she can be raised by nuns/monks (without fear of child molestation?). (N.) a person who drives an Aircraft carrier while talking on their cell phone's headset, sipping Starbucks, complaining about the spot on their Armani suit and chuckling lightly/giggling femininely...all while cutting you off on a busy intersection and careening into oncoming traffic without so much as the bat of an eye.
Onward, now, to our last topic. Crossed wires. Sounds a little odd, yes? Well, no doubt.. but I'm convinced that with all this wind, a few birds' wires have been knocked loose or crossed or at the very least, the poor things are having a wretched time trying to navigate around. I was at a stoplight the other day, minding my own business, watching the light like a good girl... and all of a sudden WHAM! Some poor bird's gone and smacked into the stoplight and landed on the car next to me. Now yes, that's a litle scary, but not uncommon from what I hear. Birds continually ram full-speed into the picture window at home, and even on campus at the dorms there's the occasional THUNK but I say it's a conspiracy. That's right. The birds are trying to take over the world! And they're starting with the stars. Remember what happened to Fabio? See? That proves it! They're after us.
*Aircraft Carrier- (n.) 1. A large vehicle, normally referred to as an SUV, which takes up 8 1/2 parking spaces, swerves and is dangerous to drive anywhere other than California. 2. A vehicle, large in measure, which is run only by its own private oilfield and the stupidity of the driver.
*Yuppy Trash (adj.)- To have or to be rich beyond one's wildest dreams and to squander it on a cell phone, a pilot notebook, an Aircraft carrier(see above), and a child whom you send off to boarding school only to strut on company picnics and then to tuck away back in a safe place where he/she can be raised by nuns/monks (without fear of child molestation?). (N.) a person who drives an Aircraft carrier while talking on their cell phone's headset, sipping Starbucks, complaining about the spot on their Armani suit and chuckling lightly/giggling femininely...all while cutting you off on a busy intersection and careening into oncoming traffic without so much as the bat of an eye.
Monday, May 6, 2002
Shouldn't You be Extinct by now?
Ok, so the top ten list for today is:
The Top Ten Ways to Make a Group of Girls Say “Dear God!” (and not in the good way)
10). Make sure your car is absolutely filthy. Allow it to fester in the sun until it’s growing its own species of bacteria and then drive by with your head out the window and “growl” at us. That does wonders for everyone’s ego.
9). Cruise by with your seat so far back that you can’t see over the dash, reach the pedals or even read the clock. Oh yeah, baby. I’d leap right into that deathtrap, no questions asked!
8). Hiss/spit, make that “fttttttttttt” sound or do other such noises at us while at a stoplight. We’re trapped but that doesn’t mean the ‘captive audience’ rule applies. Ever.
7).Make sure you’re blaring some god-awful song, too. In an attempt to prove your masculinity, you drive down Grand River Avenue blaring a techno remix of Rhinestone Cowboy? I think not.
6). Drive an incredibly expensive car (complete with shiny rims and a huge stereo) and just watch us switch to Freudian mode.
5). Pretend you’re Michael Jackson. That’s right… complete with one glove, red leather jacket and greasy, nasty hair.
4). Stare at us while we’re at the stoplight. That’s right. Don’t even blink or snicker, smile or even try to wave. Just . . . stare.
3). Honk your horn incessantly. It’ll get our attention, surely but there’s no guarantee we’ll stop unless you’re trying to warn us there’s an axe murderer in the back seat.
2). Moan at us as you drive by. Mmhm. That’s right, nothing turns me on more than a stranger moaning at me as he and his buddies drive by in a car… (add twenty brownie points if I moan back and you nearly crash the car. That’s interesting if not hilarious)
1). Wear your hair in a mullet. Dress in a wifebeater, drive a penis-car and stare out the window at me while you’re at the light and there’s no way for me to get away.
Any one of these, or even a combination of the aforementioned attributes are sure to get you noticed. Noticed but not liked and certainly not dated. Please note that we are intelligent creatures and … for the most part, your best laid plans are often transparent and rather laughable.
Here’s a little hint, boys…
Don’t be something you’re not. We don’t like false people just like you don’t like fake boobs (well, some of you don’t).
The Top Ten Ways to Make a Group of Girls Say “Dear God!” (and not in the good way)
10). Make sure your car is absolutely filthy. Allow it to fester in the sun until it’s growing its own species of bacteria and then drive by with your head out the window and “growl” at us. That does wonders for everyone’s ego.
9). Cruise by with your seat so far back that you can’t see over the dash, reach the pedals or even read the clock. Oh yeah, baby. I’d leap right into that deathtrap, no questions asked!
8). Hiss/spit, make that “fttttttttttt” sound or do other such noises at us while at a stoplight. We’re trapped but that doesn’t mean the ‘captive audience’ rule applies. Ever.
7).Make sure you’re blaring some god-awful song, too. In an attempt to prove your masculinity, you drive down Grand River Avenue blaring a techno remix of Rhinestone Cowboy? I think not.
6). Drive an incredibly expensive car (complete with shiny rims and a huge stereo) and just watch us switch to Freudian mode.
5). Pretend you’re Michael Jackson. That’s right… complete with one glove, red leather jacket and greasy, nasty hair.
4). Stare at us while we’re at the stoplight. That’s right. Don’t even blink or snicker, smile or even try to wave. Just . . . stare.
3). Honk your horn incessantly. It’ll get our attention, surely but there’s no guarantee we’ll stop unless you’re trying to warn us there’s an axe murderer in the back seat.
2). Moan at us as you drive by. Mmhm. That’s right, nothing turns me on more than a stranger moaning at me as he and his buddies drive by in a car… (add twenty brownie points if I moan back and you nearly crash the car. That’s interesting if not hilarious)
1). Wear your hair in a mullet. Dress in a wifebeater, drive a penis-car and stare out the window at me while you’re at the light and there’s no way for me to get away.
Any one of these, or even a combination of the aforementioned attributes are sure to get you noticed. Noticed but not liked and certainly not dated. Please note that we are intelligent creatures and … for the most part, your best laid plans are often transparent and rather laughable.
Here’s a little hint, boys…
Don’t be something you’re not. We don’t like false people just like you don’t like fake boobs (well, some of you don’t).
Tuesday, April 30, 2002
Joygasm!
For our amusement and in honour of going away from Satan for the rest of my life, I've decided to compile antoher top ten list (a la "Satan Sleeps Below Me".. check that post if you want another laugh) of reasons why you must always know your rommate or be prepared for the worst case scenario.
Your rommate might be Satan:
10). If, to understand your roommate, you must use The Blacktionary and improvise from there to the "Ghettofied" version of that.
9). If you must listen to mindless praddle which contains the words/phrases "Honkey" and "She's really beautiful for a white woman"
8). If you have to hide your food in the BATHROOM in order for it to be around the next time you're hungry.
7). If you feel the bed below you rocking at least five of the seven days of the week.
6). If you hear the words "Like-ded, Work-ded," or "GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURL! YOU KNOW" at least once each conversation
5). If you find your away message turned off, porn links popped up -because she doesn't know how to close them- and your entire computer's screen in disarray.
4). If you get an explaination about Lent...that it's all right to cheat every now and again. Even better, add two points if you hear that your roommate's Cathloic church lets Methodists take communion.
3). If there are undistinguishable floods of men coming to and fro from the bottom bunk... nameless, penniless for feeing Satan, and stinky from the 3 minutes of actual thrusing that they've done.
2). If your roommate asks you .. and I quote "What's a bird?"
And the number one way to tell if Satan sleeps in your room?
1). If she insists on yelling out the five story window to ask you if you're going to be home tonight, when you're already downstairs in the parking lot half-way into the car.....addendum... if her voice is more and it is possible.. annoying than Fran Drescher's.
Your rommate might be Satan:
10). If, to understand your roommate, you must use The Blacktionary and improvise from there to the "Ghettofied" version of that.
9). If you must listen to mindless praddle which contains the words/phrases "Honkey" and "She's really beautiful for a white woman"
8). If you have to hide your food in the BATHROOM in order for it to be around the next time you're hungry.
7). If you feel the bed below you rocking at least five of the seven days of the week.
6). If you hear the words "Like-ded, Work-ded," or "GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURL! YOU KNOW" at least once each conversation
5). If you find your away message turned off, porn links popped up -because she doesn't know how to close them- and your entire computer's screen in disarray.
4). If you get an explaination about Lent...that it's all right to cheat every now and again. Even better, add two points if you hear that your roommate's Cathloic church lets Methodists take communion.
3). If there are undistinguishable floods of men coming to and fro from the bottom bunk... nameless, penniless for feeing Satan, and stinky from the 3 minutes of actual thrusing that they've done.
2). If your roommate asks you .. and I quote "What's a bird?"
And the number one way to tell if Satan sleeps in your room?
1). If she insists on yelling out the five story window to ask you if you're going to be home tonight, when you're already downstairs in the parking lot half-way into the car.....addendum... if her voice is more and it is possible.. annoying than Fran Drescher's.
Monday, April 29, 2002
Satan Rears Her Ugly Head
Why, oh why was I the one selected to be tortured by the most inconsiderate little bitch in the world? I thought I was doing all right, you know? Going to college, making something of myself... Evidently God will smite those who want to sleep at sodomy-thirty in the morning. Who knew..?
Let's deal with the facts here. 12:30 is bed time, I don't care how tired or un-tired I am. 12:30 is bed time, especially because I have a final today which requires a bit of intelligence to be able to pass. Obviously Satan isn't familiar with that sort of thing because when She came rollin' on in at 1:30, she (as per usual) flicked on all the lights, began to giggle and heat up some more of my food..but not for herself. Oh no! That would be semi-tolerable because she's done it before and I've come to accept that fact. No... she heated up MY Ragu instant pasta (which, I might add, is the most delicious microwave meal ever made) and gave it to the nameless man she'd brought home with her. Now, normally I'm glad to share food with strangers but this guy did nothing but complain about the food, the room, the girl (attempting to) sleep in the top bunk, as well as the girl's weight on the bed.
"DAYUM, _insert devil's name here_! That honkey girl's bout t'a break th'dam bed. Y'all bes be careful if she flips o'er in 'er sleep."
Growl!!
What goddamned right does his large ass have to come into my room and eat my food and comment on MY ASS!?
I've finally come to the realization that things are merely going downhill from here because after 20 minutes of groping and a whopping 3 minutes of actual sex, the man left... and Satan decided it was time to use my computer, turn off my away message and look at god-knows-what on the damned internet.
What's that you say? Tell me more? Surely I will... you knew I wasn't done ranting, not by a long shot.
This morning was quite interesting. I got up at the tail-end of sodomy-thirty like I always do. Took a shower, got all spiffified for work and as I'm filling up my cup with Faygo (drink of the gods, I'll have you know), she sits up and proceeds as follows:
"Hey, Jess... why'd you put that plate of food into my fridge?" Well, being that it was hers, she'd put it in my fridge and I'd neglected to move it for I had no real reason to bother with it...it had been in my fridge for about a month now, growing its own culture of bacterium. I told her I didn't know if she still wanted it and I'd run out of room in my own fridge, so I put it in hers. Evidently, in the land of Satan, that's unacceptable... to put someone's food in their own fridge. I wasn't ..repeat wasn't in the mood for a fight so I told her I was sorry (sorry for putting her own food in her own fridge so it could stink up her side of the room? Yep)and I shut the door before I could hear anything else.
But on the up side... I'm done on Wednesday! wooohoooo!!! All I have to do after Wednesday is work a bit and clean out the rest of my crap-ola which is minnimal because I took a chitload home this weekend (thanks Rae!).
Let's deal with the facts here. 12:30 is bed time, I don't care how tired or un-tired I am. 12:30 is bed time, especially because I have a final today which requires a bit of intelligence to be able to pass. Obviously Satan isn't familiar with that sort of thing because when She came rollin' on in at 1:30, she (as per usual) flicked on all the lights, began to giggle and heat up some more of my food..but not for herself. Oh no! That would be semi-tolerable because she's done it before and I've come to accept that fact. No... she heated up MY Ragu instant pasta (which, I might add, is the most delicious microwave meal ever made) and gave it to the nameless man she'd brought home with her. Now, normally I'm glad to share food with strangers but this guy did nothing but complain about the food, the room, the girl (attempting to) sleep in the top bunk, as well as the girl's weight on the bed.
"DAYUM, _insert devil's name here_! That honkey girl's bout t'a break th'dam bed. Y'all bes be careful if she flips o'er in 'er sleep."
Growl!!
What goddamned right does his large ass have to come into my room and eat my food and comment on MY ASS!?
I've finally come to the realization that things are merely going downhill from here because after 20 minutes of groping and a whopping 3 minutes of actual sex, the man left... and Satan decided it was time to use my computer, turn off my away message and look at god-knows-what on the damned internet.
What's that you say? Tell me more? Surely I will... you knew I wasn't done ranting, not by a long shot.
This morning was quite interesting. I got up at the tail-end of sodomy-thirty like I always do. Took a shower, got all spiffified for work and as I'm filling up my cup with Faygo (drink of the gods, I'll have you know), she sits up and proceeds as follows:
"Hey, Jess... why'd you put that plate of food into my fridge?" Well, being that it was hers, she'd put it in my fridge and I'd neglected to move it for I had no real reason to bother with it...it had been in my fridge for about a month now, growing its own culture of bacterium. I told her I didn't know if she still wanted it and I'd run out of room in my own fridge, so I put it in hers. Evidently, in the land of Satan, that's unacceptable... to put someone's food in their own fridge. I wasn't ..repeat wasn't in the mood for a fight so I told her I was sorry (sorry for putting her own food in her own fridge so it could stink up her side of the room? Yep)and I shut the door before I could hear anything else.
But on the up side... I'm done on Wednesday! wooohoooo!!! All I have to do after Wednesday is work a bit and clean out the rest of my crap-ola which is minnimal because I took a chitload home this weekend (thanks Rae!).
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
My First Concert
All right, so we were driving home from the concert last night, getting on to the home-stretch where it goes down to 2 lanes from 3. Just after it switched to 2 lanes, we started to pass someone on the left (because God smites those who pass on the right). Well, out of nowhere I hear:
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRR!! and I look over just in time to see a little white *Fuck-Geo go flying past us in the shoulder, kickin' up dirt, dead deer and all manner of debris. Now, as he swerved out in front of us we all yelped and(though I didn't think it was humanly possible) had a collective corronary. Talented, aren't we? At any rate, he was swerving about like a Chinese acrobat with an inner ear infection and doing a the very least 15 over the speed limit. Glad he'd passed us without injury, we were plotting on calling the police and letting them know some crazy fucktard was careening about the highway.
Luckily for us (not so much for Fucktard) there was a 'hidden' Suburban-cop (aka: the cop who drives a suburban..for those without deductive reasoning capabilities) camped out just down the road.-One minute whilst I digress and tease the James-boy (who is from Ohio..and has the right to be confused thusly) about how he passed 10 cops and never saw a one of them...heehee. Evidently Michigan cops are good at the guerilla warfare hiding places as opposed to Ohio cops...Ahem...-
Splendid. Evidently the cop saw the whole thing because he took off after the *Fuck-Geo who thought it was a good idea to get into the right lane where we'd switched to.. and slow down to 40 mph (speed limit, incidentally was 70...85 if you're from Michigan) so that the cop would just fly on by. Good cop as it was, it got all up on the ass of the *Fuck-Geo and pulled him over. For his sake I hope he was just intoxicated instead of merely being a Fucktard.
*Fuck-Geo (n.)- 1). a car which disappears into any normal-sized parking space and magically reappears when you're half-way into pulling into said space which causes you to yelp "fuck! Geo..." 2). a small car, usually of the Geo family which runs on nothing more than 2 AA batteries and the stupidity of the driver.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRR!! and I look over just in time to see a little white *Fuck-Geo go flying past us in the shoulder, kickin' up dirt, dead deer and all manner of debris. Now, as he swerved out in front of us we all yelped and(though I didn't think it was humanly possible) had a collective corronary. Talented, aren't we? At any rate, he was swerving about like a Chinese acrobat with an inner ear infection and doing a the very least 15 over the speed limit. Glad he'd passed us without injury, we were plotting on calling the police and letting them know some crazy fucktard was careening about the highway.
Luckily for us (not so much for Fucktard) there was a 'hidden' Suburban-cop (aka: the cop who drives a suburban..for those without deductive reasoning capabilities) camped out just down the road.-One minute whilst I digress and tease the James-boy (who is from Ohio..and has the right to be confused thusly) about how he passed 10 cops and never saw a one of them...heehee. Evidently Michigan cops are good at the guerilla warfare hiding places as opposed to Ohio cops...Ahem...-
Splendid. Evidently the cop saw the whole thing because he took off after the *Fuck-Geo who thought it was a good idea to get into the right lane where we'd switched to.. and slow down to 40 mph (speed limit, incidentally was 70...85 if you're from Michigan) so that the cop would just fly on by. Good cop as it was, it got all up on the ass of the *Fuck-Geo and pulled him over. For his sake I hope he was just intoxicated instead of merely being a Fucktard.
*Fuck-Geo (n.)- 1). a car which disappears into any normal-sized parking space and magically reappears when you're half-way into pulling into said space which causes you to yelp "fuck! Geo..." 2). a small car, usually of the Geo family which runs on nothing more than 2 AA batteries and the stupidity of the driver.
Monday, April 15, 2002
Dear Lord, Save Me
Right, so like I said... only two more weeks. I'll have to keep chanting that one over and over again. Two more weeks then I'm done with finals, She's done with school for good... Why you ask? Well when you're already on academic warning and your current GPA is somewhere in the neighborhood of 1.0-1.5, you're pretty much guaranteed a nonstop, one way ticket back to Ghettospeak, Michigan. Am I happy? In some ways.. yes (What's that? No one coming in at 4am, turning on all the lights, calling back the 18 trillion people that called in the past 2 days -all male, mind you- , using your microwave to heat up your food to stuff into their insignificantly small belly all while you're trying to SLEEP??....no. that I would miss! I'm talking about her more annoying qualities.) I'm happy because I'll be done with her. No more petting the drunken girl who just put her cigarette out on my palm , no more getting my ass up at 7am -AKA: sodomy-thirty in the freakin' morning- just to help her type her paper so she'll shut the hell up , no more listening to the ghettospeak through her crying about the guy she was dating that got shot.. (you know, she just "Knewded he wasn't not into drugs, Jess.. he was just havin' lots'a money!" Right... and Charlie Sheen just happened to have very expensive girlfriends.)
Allow me to wax mushy for a minute, though and tell you why I almost kinda sorta feel bad for the little fucktard. She does come from the ghetto.. yes I know that's not an excuse. I'm not making excuses or condoning her behavior or even typifying hers to that of normal people who also grew up in her part of town. I'm merely saying that it was most assuredly hard work for her to get here in the first place (unless my suspicions are correct and she's only here for a cruel science experiment in which the two female of the species are put together to see how long it will take the monogomous one to develop a spasm in her trigger finger... Ahem!) Even though I'm fairly sure she got in on the whole affirmative action bid (seeing as she claims to be "Xicana.." Right...). Either way, it takes a lot of guts to even be here in the normal world.
There, that's my mush. That's all she gets seeing as she gets a free ride from her church scholarship (I wonder... would the Pope condemn her to burn in hell if he knew what she was doing? I may have to invest in some holy water and find out if she really is the devil incarnate. Remind me to grab some flame retardant sheets for the bunk beds before I try anything.) as well as from the government. Between those two, I'm both disappointed and sickened. She gets a free ride with the IQ of a steaming pile of moose dung and I get nothing? Need-based financial aid for college should apply to "I need to go to college" instead of "I need to go do something more amusing and socially acceptable than sell my body/drugs on the streetcorner."
Allow me to wax mushy for a minute, though and tell you why I almost kinda sorta feel bad for the little fucktard. She does come from the ghetto.. yes I know that's not an excuse. I'm not making excuses or condoning her behavior or even typifying hers to that of normal people who also grew up in her part of town. I'm merely saying that it was most assuredly hard work for her to get here in the first place (unless my suspicions are correct and she's only here for a cruel science experiment in which the two female of the species are put together to see how long it will take the monogomous one to develop a spasm in her trigger finger... Ahem!) Even though I'm fairly sure she got in on the whole affirmative action bid (seeing as she claims to be "Xicana.." Right...). Either way, it takes a lot of guts to even be here in the normal world.
There, that's my mush. That's all she gets seeing as she gets a free ride from her church scholarship (I wonder... would the Pope condemn her to burn in hell if he knew what she was doing? I may have to invest in some holy water and find out if she really is the devil incarnate. Remind me to grab some flame retardant sheets for the bunk beds before I try anything.) as well as from the government. Between those two, I'm both disappointed and sickened. She gets a free ride with the IQ of a steaming pile of moose dung and I get nothing? Need-based financial aid for college should apply to "I need to go to college" instead of "I need to go do something more amusing and socially acceptable than sell my body/drugs on the streetcorner."
Friday, April 12, 2002
Satan Sleeps Beneath Me
For all those of you who've been fortunate enough to bypass my ranting about The Devil aka: my roommate, let me rattle your brain a bit. I beg pardon if you're pathetically christian or any other religious zealot, but I'm fairly sure the antichrist lives in this concrete cage formally known as a dorm room. She shall remain nameless, for I'm sure you all know who I'm talking about if you know me personally and I fail to see how mentioning her name would do me any good at this point. At any rate, She is the devil and we'll make a top ten list.. just for amusement's sake, about how to tell if you, too have Satan sleeping beneath you.
10). She insists on acting inebreated just for the sake of 'being heard.'
9). She takes over 1/2 of your closet as well as her own.
8). She takes over 3/4 of the total living area which is less than 20 ft square (forgive me, I'm bad at metrics. Convert it yourself.)
7). She works at a topless bar but insists it's a good job if you overlook the groping, teasing, sexual harassment suits, nekkedidy and danger of drinking at work while underage.
6). She owns and evidently uses more than 6 shampoo bottles...and insists on keeping them all in the shower that is less than 3 ft. square.
5). She comes in at 3:30am only to turn on All the lights, the television, the radio and her talking on her cell phone whilst you're SLEEPING
4). She insists on using your computer which is fairly new though nothing to scream about because hers "Don't work-ded so good"
3). She has a schedule for booty calls and pleads with you to try and be conveniently out of the room at the scheduled times.
2). She insists on having your work as her secretary, taking down her papers as she dictates... in ghettospeak.
1). She doesn't think twice about having sex in the lower bunk while you're trying to SLEEP in the top bunk.
If any three of these ten are frequently exhibited by your roommate... get the hell out now while you still can! Given, I've only got 3 weeks left (nearly 2 now) but I'm developing a twitch in my left eye, a habitual growl that she deems "cute" and a homicidal itch that simply must be scratched ... and soon.
10). She insists on acting inebreated just for the sake of 'being heard.'
9). She takes over 1/2 of your closet as well as her own.
8). She takes over 3/4 of the total living area which is less than 20 ft square (forgive me, I'm bad at metrics. Convert it yourself.)
7). She works at a topless bar but insists it's a good job if you overlook the groping, teasing, sexual harassment suits, nekkedidy and danger of drinking at work while underage.
6). She owns and evidently uses more than 6 shampoo bottles...and insists on keeping them all in the shower that is less than 3 ft. square.
5). She comes in at 3:30am only to turn on All the lights, the television, the radio and her talking on her cell phone whilst you're SLEEPING
4). She insists on using your computer which is fairly new though nothing to scream about because hers "Don't work-ded so good"
3). She has a schedule for booty calls and pleads with you to try and be conveniently out of the room at the scheduled times.
2). She insists on having your work as her secretary, taking down her papers as she dictates... in ghettospeak.
1). She doesn't think twice about having sex in the lower bunk while you're trying to SLEEP in the top bunk.
If any three of these ten are frequently exhibited by your roommate... get the hell out now while you still can! Given, I've only got 3 weeks left (nearly 2 now) but I'm developing a twitch in my left eye, a habitual growl that she deems "cute" and a homicidal itch that simply must be scratched ... and soon.
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