I'm beginning to remember why I forgot about this blog in the first place: Even less happens to me than I thought. What kind of life am I living when I think something vaguely noteworthy will happen* every week or so, but then the days just keep on slipping by and I'm still left with "My dog is now old and incontinent" and "What does Tumblr do, again?"
Disappointing.
So I'll tell you about my Omegle experience. Omegle, if there's anyone out there besides me who was unaware, is a chat site that connects you with a Perfect Stranger and the two of you proceed to have a conversation - which, given that both of you are residing behind an impenetrable veil of anonymity, is bound to be soul-baring or at least interesting.
How naive I was, internet. Because of course when the barriers put up by social niceties go down, the first thing that comes up is an erection.
I've had seven Omegle conversations. In two of them I was insulted immediately and then the Stranger disconnected before I could muster an appropriately scathing retort. Two others were normal enough: a nice fellow from, apparently, Sweden, which my faulty Wifi connection ended prematurely; and another guy from Canada who needed a bit of prodding to actually say anything, but was pleasant enough when he did.
The other three? Were hilarious. Horny male virgins who, once they realized their requests for "picz" would not be granted, proceeded to grill me about my sex life. I had fun with that. I got inventive. I scared one of them with my enthusiastic descriptions of BSDM, which involved a bit of quick and spontaneous research I had to delete from my browser history. There were so many emoticons and senseless abbreviations, a string of characters I at first didn't realize was meant to be a penis but, when the penny dropped, seemed like an overly optimistic representation of the Stranger's length.
Everyone wanted to exchange names, ages, and genders, which to me kind of defeated the purpose of the whole "Stranger" business. If I don't know anything about you, I'll talk about anything. If I find out you're 19-year-old, virginal Mike and you have "questuns," I sigh and open a tab on vices for a gentleman's scrotum.
I don't think I'll use Omegle again. The charm wears off quickly.
---
* Osama Bin Laden's dead. There's that. I should have specified "something vaguely noteworthy will happen TO ME.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sound of Si-No, Fuck It, Too Predictable
Maaaybe it's just been far too long since I've spent any considerable amount of time in a public library, but. When did they get so loud? Between the three kids and their math tutors (or whatever) in the near vicinity, and the man with the ridiculously high-pitched voice constantly piping up from behind a shelf (which is a shame, since now I really want to get a look at him), I can barely hear myself think up in hurr.
The guy at the table next to me is wearing earplugs, for god's sake. Since when do you need earplugs in a library? Where are the terrifying librarians shushing everyone into shameful silence (sorry)? Why is a young child screeching in the distance? Would it be weird to ask earplug man if he has a spare set?
So many questions.
The whole situation has led me to do some Serious Pondering, complete with intensely thoughtful facial expressions and nods which appear to be making other patrons uncomfortable, about how difficult it is to find some silence. Like, real, nobody-else-is-breathing-too-heavily-too-close-for-comfort silence. It's almost impossible. I live with my parents, who, even when they're not talking to me (how dare they), always have at least one T.V. on at a fairly high volume. Whenever I'm home alone the neighborhood children are outside, apparently shrieking directly into our downstairs windows from the sound of it. The campus library is full of the sounds of moist mastication (had to do it) or grunts or coughing or sneezing. Coffee places are, of course, intended for light background music and conversation. And now the public library turns out to be noisy, too.
So really - think about it. When was the last time you were able to sit undisturbed by the sounds of other people? Go on, make embarrassingly public thinky-faces with me. Hmmmm.
If I remember, I'll mention it. But now I have to write comments on other people's workshop stories.
The guy at the table next to me is wearing earplugs, for god's sake. Since when do you need earplugs in a library? Where are the terrifying librarians shushing everyone into shameful silence (sorry)? Why is a young child screeching in the distance? Would it be weird to ask earplug man if he has a spare set?
So many questions.
The whole situation has led me to do some Serious Pondering, complete with intensely thoughtful facial expressions and nods which appear to be making other patrons uncomfortable, about how difficult it is to find some silence. Like, real, nobody-else-is-breathing-too-heavily-too-close-for-comfort silence. It's almost impossible. I live with my parents, who, even when they're not talking to me (how dare they), always have at least one T.V. on at a fairly high volume. Whenever I'm home alone the neighborhood children are outside, apparently shrieking directly into our downstairs windows from the sound of it. The campus library is full of the sounds of moist mastication (had to do it) or grunts or coughing or sneezing. Coffee places are, of course, intended for light background music and conversation. And now the public library turns out to be noisy, too.
So really - think about it. When was the last time you were able to sit undisturbed by the sounds of other people? Go on, make embarrassingly public thinky-faces with me. Hmmmm.
If I remember, I'll mention it. But now I have to write comments on other people's workshop stories.
Re-Eureka!
So this is embarrassing, but I completely forgot I had this blog. Embarrassing but not surprising, I should point out, because I'm the kind of person who kept like eight different journals in a two-year period. I would find a journal, think, "Yes, this cover encapsulates the Essence of Me," and then a month later I'd find another journal I liked better and start writing in that one instead.
Incidentally, I should probably try to round those up. There could be incriminating information in there.
(No there couldn't. My life is pathetic.)
Anyway, the point is I rediscovered this, my sadly abandoned blog, read through it, and decided I didn't sound like a complete moron I would deny ever knowing in real life. So I'm going to start using it again. I even followed all the people everyone's already following! So I'm pretty committed.
I'll start analyzing all the trivial events in my life for anecdotal gold, and when I unearth something worth sharing I'll write the shit out of it. (But not now. Right now I have multiple papers that should have been done last week.)
Okay, I'm out of here. Deuces.
Incidentally, I should probably try to round those up. There could be incriminating information in there.
(No there couldn't. My life is pathetic.)
Anyway, the point is I rediscovered this, my sadly abandoned blog, read through it, and decided I didn't sound like a complete moron I would deny ever knowing in real life. So I'm going to start using it again. I even followed all the people everyone's already following! So I'm pretty committed.
I'll start analyzing all the trivial events in my life for anecdotal gold, and when I unearth something worth sharing I'll write the shit out of it. (But not now. Right now I have multiple papers that should have been done last week.)
Okay, I'm out of here. Deuces.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Adventure
Compared to the last couple of days, I was unusually productive today. I left the house.
I needed to get a memory card for our Gamecube, because I had been suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to play Sonic Adventure 2: Battle, but I didn’t see the point if none of my progress would be saved. I know myself; I burn out easily. Therefore odds were that I would make it through a total of four stages, get bored, but then want to pick it up again a few hours later. At which point I would have to start over, which would suck. And I couldn’t find the memory card – which I knew we owned – anywhere.
The urge persisted.
I showered, taking the opportunity to sing “Bad Romance” in an over-the-top sultry voice because no one could hear me, then put on actual pants, and drove to GameStop, where the very nice guy behind the counter sold me a used card for $15.
Yikes. Just realized I have less than $100 in my bank account and I just got my paycheck Friday. No good.
Anyway, I was ridiculously proud of myself for accomplishing this. I have this thing, I think it’s a byproduct of depression, where activities that people with normal chemistry would find easy seem impossibly difficult to me. On my good days, it’s just things that require a lot of organization, and I can push myself to do it. On bad days, brushing my teeth is too complicated and tiring. But I managed to both make myself presentable and interact with another human being, so today is a good one.
As I was driving home, congratulating myself for running a small errand, my thoughts naturally turned to the game I had such a powerful desire to play and then video games in general.
The fact is, I’m not good at video games. I wish I was. Sonic Adventure 2: Battle happens to be one of the easiest games on the planet – I’m serious, you don’t even have to aim half the time – so I can play that without too much frustration. Otherwise my options are limited to Tetris and Pokemon. I got that Super Mario Bros. game for the Wii the other day, and I die about ten times on every. Single. Level. My brother sits and watches me, his disdain vying with his disbelief for the position of most overpowering emotion.
Brother: Don’t you know you need to jump over that gap by now? When you fall, you die. When you die, you have to start over.
Me: I KNOW THAT. *fails to jump, dies*
Brother: Apparently you don’t.
Me: Don’t you have finals to study for? Something? *runs into a Goomba* SON OF A BITCH.
Brother: I literally don’t think anyone has ever been worse at a game.
Mario, on screen: *begins to weep*
You get the idea. I once made a valiant effort to play Halo. That didn’t end well either, even when I was playing at the easiest level – you know, where the aliens actually flee before you and your massive array of guns? Yeah.
It’s too bad. I’ve always kind of wanted to be a gamer, regardless of the stigma. I’d like to be good enough to get on Xbox Live or whatever and play with other people without making them a) piss their pants with derisive laughter, b) get homicidally angry at me because of my incompetence, or c) both.
I’m also afraid that they’d assume I suck because I’m a girl, which would make me furious and would be an insult to competent female gamers everywhere.
I read somewhere that around 2/3 of online gamers are girls, but they either stick to their own games or choose male avatars – not many are up front about their gender right away. My only exposure to admitted female gamers makes me wonder if there’s another reason besides discrimination that makes these women hide. That would be the insufferability of the ones who comment sections on various threads, in which they talk in very knowledgeable detail about a game and then, at the end, say something like, “By the way, I have [some female sexual organ]. Did I just blow your mind?”
This has always bothered me, for a couple reasons. One of which is that, while my mind wasn’t blown, I realize that I do in fact just casually assume that most people online are male unless otherwise specified. Not in a “no girls allowed” sense – obviously, I’m a girl – it’s just a generalization. Like when people use “he” to refer to a hypothetical person. It’s aggravating to see this in myself.
The other is the air of smugness. I have a friend who once said in a class that if she were a character in a Western, she’d be the one that everybody thought was a guy until she whipped off her hat – probably in slow motion – and let her blatantly feminine locks tumble gloriously around her head while onlookers gaped in shock and awe.
See, that’s funny when she says it, because she’s a humble person, and also because she could legitimately kick ass if she wanted to. The attitude is less amusing when I envision a stranger revealing her true gender with an overly-dramatic flourish and expecting the male gaming population to fall down at her feet, just because she’s a woman and can wield a gun made out of pixels. That’s not so much removing a hat as ripping open your shirt and thrusting your boobs at the world. By which I mean, not classy.
I’m going to be honest, all of this seemed wittier when I was talking at myself in my car. Now I’ve been going on for ages and I don’t know how to transition away from the sudden rant and end this.
I did go home and play my pathetically easy game. I also got tired of it after about four stages, but the $15 are now worth it because I’m about to go pick up where I left off, suckaaas.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I Could Never Be A Mother
It happened again. The one woman with a small child sat next to me in Starbucks.
I don't know how they do it. It's like the cat phenomenon - the fact that a cat will always go for the one person in the room who's allergic or just doesn't like cats.
And I dislike children. I don't even like the word children - it sounds prissy. Yet harassed mothers with their snot-ridden spawn in tow are drawn to me as if I exert some kind of twisted gravitational pull. They'll sit down at the nearest table and the child will invariably stare at me, dribbling on itself, while I try to ignore the fact that it's clearly trying to devour my soul with its blank, watery eyes.
Sometimes, like today, the mother will look at this horrific tableau and think, "Oh, my offspring likes this cringing, uncomfortable-looking person! Maybe she'll watch little What's-It's-Face while I go to the bathroom for two seconds of peace."
Because I have this crippling compulsion to be nice to people, I agreed to keep an eye on the little death machine for a few minutes.
It was an excruciating two minutes and forty-nine seconds.
It chewed on a napkin and continued gazing relentlessly at me. I kept edging away in little increments, trying to look at it only peripherally in case meeting its eyes proved fatal. Sometimes it made guttural sounds, which I imagine were part of some kind of infant witchcraft. The napkin darkened steadily as it absorbed the kid's no doubt venomous secretions. A damp, evil smell emanated from its direction. I held my breath.
At one minute and twelve seconds, the sodden napkin slipped from between its pulpy lips. Its eyes widened, displeased.
Oh SHIT, I thought, and in a panic thrust the cardboard sleeve around my cup into its gaping mouth. It accepted my desperate offering, gnawing on the cardboard like an ancient god on the bones of a human sacrifice. Its teeth were little nubs, ghastly to behold. Without the napkin shielding its chin, I could see that the skin there was slick with saliva, red, and chapped. I repressed a shudder.
In all this time, it never averted its intent stare. I strained my ears for the sound of a toilet flushing, hoping to God there wasn't a window in the bathroom the mother might have crawled out of.
When she did emerge to the strains of the "Hallelujah" chorus, I tried to act as though I was smiling out of pleasure at the drooling antics of the child and not out of sheer, overwhelming relief. The hapless woman thanked me, grimly hoisted her dead-eyed burden into her arms, and as she left (and it was still staring at me over her shoulder), I internally patted my pockets, checking to make sure all of my soul was still there.
(Yes, I keep my soul in my existential pockets. What do you use, a wallet? Bah.)
I don't know how they do it. It's like the cat phenomenon - the fact that a cat will always go for the one person in the room who's allergic or just doesn't like cats.
And I dislike children. I don't even like the word children - it sounds prissy. Yet harassed mothers with their snot-ridden spawn in tow are drawn to me as if I exert some kind of twisted gravitational pull. They'll sit down at the nearest table and the child will invariably stare at me, dribbling on itself, while I try to ignore the fact that it's clearly trying to devour my soul with its blank, watery eyes.
Sometimes, like today, the mother will look at this horrific tableau and think, "Oh, my offspring likes this cringing, uncomfortable-looking person! Maybe she'll watch little What's-It's-Face while I go to the bathroom for two seconds of peace."
Because I have this crippling compulsion to be nice to people, I agreed to keep an eye on the little death machine for a few minutes.
It was an excruciating two minutes and forty-nine seconds.
It chewed on a napkin and continued gazing relentlessly at me. I kept edging away in little increments, trying to look at it only peripherally in case meeting its eyes proved fatal. Sometimes it made guttural sounds, which I imagine were part of some kind of infant witchcraft. The napkin darkened steadily as it absorbed the kid's no doubt venomous secretions. A damp, evil smell emanated from its direction. I held my breath.
At one minute and twelve seconds, the sodden napkin slipped from between its pulpy lips. Its eyes widened, displeased.
Oh SHIT, I thought, and in a panic thrust the cardboard sleeve around my cup into its gaping mouth. It accepted my desperate offering, gnawing on the cardboard like an ancient god on the bones of a human sacrifice. Its teeth were little nubs, ghastly to behold. Without the napkin shielding its chin, I could see that the skin there was slick with saliva, red, and chapped. I repressed a shudder.
In all this time, it never averted its intent stare. I strained my ears for the sound of a toilet flushing, hoping to God there wasn't a window in the bathroom the mother might have crawled out of.
When she did emerge to the strains of the "Hallelujah" chorus, I tried to act as though I was smiling out of pleasure at the drooling antics of the child and not out of sheer, overwhelming relief. The hapless woman thanked me, grimly hoisted her dead-eyed burden into her arms, and as she left (and it was still staring at me over her shoulder), I internally patted my pockets, checking to make sure all of my soul was still there.
(Yes, I keep my soul in my existential pockets. What do you use, a wallet? Bah.)
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Fuel
I hate going to the gas station. This is a fact.
While I realize that I have to feed my car periodically in return for it carrying me places, much like I occasionally pick up food for my mom because she hauled me around like a massive, internal parasite for nine months, getting gas is an ordeal. As such, I put it off as long as possible.
(This sometimes causes problems, like the time I avoided it for so long that my car ran out of gas exactly as I rolled into my garage - which, precision aside, was a hassle the next morning.)
Getting gas is mainly an inconvenience. Not only do I have to factor in the five to ten minutes it'll take into my trip, it interrupts a perfectly good ride. I don't know about you, but I tend to space out majorly when I drive, sometimes getting so into my thoughts that I talk to myself and make ridiculous faces that have probably caused more than one motorist to swerve when they inadvertently caught sight of me mid-grimace in their rear-view mirror. The necessity of pulling into a gas station and standing by a pump derails these trains of thought entirely, which I hate.
And my debit card is always rejected. Always. So instead of filling my tank in anonymity, I have to trudge into the little Quik-E-Mart or whatever so the suicidally-bored attendant can perform the complex task of swiping my card for me. They usually give me this reproachful look, like I had the pump outside reject my card on purpose in order to orchestrate this pointless interaction.
Then I have to go back outside and watch the two rows of numbers go up, which is ridiculously stressful. I keep rooting for the bottom row, even though I know the top row will always win, so I just set myself up for disappointment each and every time. And I can't just sit in my car and ignore the numbers because I'm irrationally convinced that if I'm not staring unblinkingly at the screen, the machine won't work. The closer the cost climbs to $25, the more anxious I get. And when it actually goes past $25 -
"Hey. HEY. STOP THAT. WHAT THE FUCK."
- I get agitated. I spent $28.54 on gas this morning, and I might as well have eaten a triple cheeseburger for all the good it did for my blood pressure.
Plus, no matter how long I wait after the gas stops flowing, or how vigorously I shake the nozzle, there's always that little bit of gas - which I believe I paid for - that drips on the ground. It's infuriating.
The only redeeming part of the whole experience is starting my car again and seeing the fuel gauge back at "full." I get a strange, almost primal satisfaction out of that, and sometimes it can make up for all the hassle.
Just don't drive away with the pump still in your car. That never ends well.
While I realize that I have to feed my car periodically in return for it carrying me places, much like I occasionally pick up food for my mom because she hauled me around like a massive, internal parasite for nine months, getting gas is an ordeal. As such, I put it off as long as possible.
(This sometimes causes problems, like the time I avoided it for so long that my car ran out of gas exactly as I rolled into my garage - which, precision aside, was a hassle the next morning.)
Getting gas is mainly an inconvenience. Not only do I have to factor in the five to ten minutes it'll take into my trip, it interrupts a perfectly good ride. I don't know about you, but I tend to space out majorly when I drive, sometimes getting so into my thoughts that I talk to myself and make ridiculous faces that have probably caused more than one motorist to swerve when they inadvertently caught sight of me mid-grimace in their rear-view mirror. The necessity of pulling into a gas station and standing by a pump derails these trains of thought entirely, which I hate.
And my debit card is always rejected. Always. So instead of filling my tank in anonymity, I have to trudge into the little Quik-E-Mart or whatever so the suicidally-bored attendant can perform the complex task of swiping my card for me. They usually give me this reproachful look, like I had the pump outside reject my card on purpose in order to orchestrate this pointless interaction.
Then I have to go back outside and watch the two rows of numbers go up, which is ridiculously stressful. I keep rooting for the bottom row, even though I know the top row will always win, so I just set myself up for disappointment each and every time. And I can't just sit in my car and ignore the numbers because I'm irrationally convinced that if I'm not staring unblinkingly at the screen, the machine won't work. The closer the cost climbs to $25, the more anxious I get. And when it actually goes past $25 -
"Hey. HEY. STOP THAT. WHAT THE FUCK."
- I get agitated. I spent $28.54 on gas this morning, and I might as well have eaten a triple cheeseburger for all the good it did for my blood pressure.
Plus, no matter how long I wait after the gas stops flowing, or how vigorously I shake the nozzle, there's always that little bit of gas - which I believe I paid for - that drips on the ground. It's infuriating.
The only redeeming part of the whole experience is starting my car again and seeing the fuel gauge back at "full." I get a strange, almost primal satisfaction out of that, and sometimes it can make up for all the hassle.
Just don't drive away with the pump still in your car. That never ends well.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sadly, This Isn't Unusual
So that last entry was my less-than-auspicious introduction. Now I want to talk about my day.
It didn't begin well.
I woke up to my screeching, bitchface alarm, which I have to physically get out of bed and walk across my room to turn off. This is so I won't simply shut it off from the warmth of my bed, immediately go back to sleep, miss all my classes, and fail at school/life/everything. That's fine in theory, but in reality I usually shuffle across the room groaning like a zombie, turn off the noise, and without ever opening my eyes crawl back in bed and doze off again for another half-hour or so. Then I wake up for real and still have plenty of time to get ready, so I should really just set my alarm for thirty minutes later, but actually adjusting the alarm seems like too Herculean a task to even contemplate.
The point is that this morning I did the whole shuffle-groan-turn-off-noise-crawl-back-in-bed routine, but I didn't wake up roughly half and hour later like I was supposed to. I woke up an hour and fifteen minutes later, which meant I had roughly ten minutes to skip my shower, find clothes that didn't smell like a nightclub (impossible, since I had stupidly tossed the jeans I wore to said nightclub in my closet and shut the door, so the smell had permeated every article of clothing I own), brush my teeth, feed my pets, find everything I needed for school (every book was in a different room of the house), and say goodbye to my mom so she didn't yell at me for ignoring her later on. On my way out the door I figured I'd save myself some time and money by grabbing a soda so I wouldn't have to buy coffee. I changed my mind about the soda when I almost grabbed the giant spider lurking on the handle of the refrigerator door instead. Then I felt nauseous.
Obviously all this took more than ten minutes, so by the time I swung my car out of my subdivision, making my own squealing-tires sound effects because it seemed appropriate, I had about thirty minutes to make the forty-five-plus minute drive to campus.
Miraculously, I arrived more or less on time for my first class, Ancient Greek, and was promptly slapped with a pop quiz. I got some questions wrong. Then my professor called on me to read my translation of the passage I hadn't even looked at because I had other things going on last night, like homework for all my other classes and watching the Hitler scene from Inglorious Basterds with various funny, made-up subtitles on YouTube. I had not volunteered to read the translation I didn't do, obviously, but my professor chose me anyway, like he thought I was a Pokemon and he was just going to let me faint in battle because I wasn't trained enough for this. Now he thinks I'm an idiot. I know he does, because after staring at me incredulously when I read my "translation," he shook his head and muttered something pejorative-sounding in Greek under his breath.
My other classes were either similarly disappointing or unexciting. I failed to complete my stakeout. I paid five dollars for coffee. And now I have a headache and two papers to write for tomorrow, and it's already 8:30.
Sometimes I think college is overrated. Especially since I'll be living in a box with or without my wildly useful Classics degree. Maybe it would be a nicer box if I had the degree. I don't know.
P.S. I realize I very casually mentioned that I went to a nightclub earlier. This may have given you the impression that I do stuff like that all the time, no big deal, but that impression would be wrong. In fact my social life borders on nonexistent, and I spent most of my time at that club hovering as close to the wall as possible, bobbing around lamely and wishing I could actually dance.
Just thought I'd clear that up.
P.P.S. I just got up for a second to close the blinds, since my mom asked me to and I'm a good daughter like that, and oh my god I just stepped on my brother's disgusting sweaty lacrosse kneepad gross oh my god get it off get it off get it off-
There. Wiped it on his bedspread. Problem solved.
It didn't begin well.
I woke up to my screeching, bitchface alarm, which I have to physically get out of bed and walk across my room to turn off. This is so I won't simply shut it off from the warmth of my bed, immediately go back to sleep, miss all my classes, and fail at school/life/everything. That's fine in theory, but in reality I usually shuffle across the room groaning like a zombie, turn off the noise, and without ever opening my eyes crawl back in bed and doze off again for another half-hour or so. Then I wake up for real and still have plenty of time to get ready, so I should really just set my alarm for thirty minutes later, but actually adjusting the alarm seems like too Herculean a task to even contemplate.
The point is that this morning I did the whole shuffle-groan-turn-off-noise-crawl-back-in-bed routine, but I didn't wake up roughly half and hour later like I was supposed to. I woke up an hour and fifteen minutes later, which meant I had roughly ten minutes to skip my shower, find clothes that didn't smell like a nightclub (impossible, since I had stupidly tossed the jeans I wore to said nightclub in my closet and shut the door, so the smell had permeated every article of clothing I own), brush my teeth, feed my pets, find everything I needed for school (every book was in a different room of the house), and say goodbye to my mom so she didn't yell at me for ignoring her later on. On my way out the door I figured I'd save myself some time and money by grabbing a soda so I wouldn't have to buy coffee. I changed my mind about the soda when I almost grabbed the giant spider lurking on the handle of the refrigerator door instead. Then I felt nauseous.
Obviously all this took more than ten minutes, so by the time I swung my car out of my subdivision, making my own squealing-tires sound effects because it seemed appropriate, I had about thirty minutes to make the forty-five-plus minute drive to campus.
Miraculously, I arrived more or less on time for my first class, Ancient Greek, and was promptly slapped with a pop quiz. I got some questions wrong. Then my professor called on me to read my translation of the passage I hadn't even looked at because I had other things going on last night, like homework for all my other classes and watching the Hitler scene from Inglorious Basterds with various funny, made-up subtitles on YouTube. I had not volunteered to read the translation I didn't do, obviously, but my professor chose me anyway, like he thought I was a Pokemon and he was just going to let me faint in battle because I wasn't trained enough for this. Now he thinks I'm an idiot. I know he does, because after staring at me incredulously when I read my "translation," he shook his head and muttered something pejorative-sounding in Greek under his breath.
My other classes were either similarly disappointing or unexciting. I failed to complete my stakeout. I paid five dollars for coffee. And now I have a headache and two papers to write for tomorrow, and it's already 8:30.
Sometimes I think college is overrated. Especially since I'll be living in a box with or without my wildly useful Classics degree. Maybe it would be a nicer box if I had the degree. I don't know.
P.S. I realize I very casually mentioned that I went to a nightclub earlier. This may have given you the impression that I do stuff like that all the time, no big deal, but that impression would be wrong. In fact my social life borders on nonexistent, and I spent most of my time at that club hovering as close to the wall as possible, bobbing around lamely and wishing I could actually dance.
Just thought I'd clear that up.
P.P.S. I just got up for a second to close the blinds, since my mom asked me to and I'm a good daughter like that, and oh my god I just stepped on my brother's disgusting sweaty lacrosse kneepad gross oh my god get it off get it off get it off-
There. Wiped it on his bedspread. Problem solved.
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