fully aware I'm spiraling out of control. Problem is, I love every minute of it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Chardonnay, anyone?
Is getting somewhat drunk on a Monday night normal and a facet of growing up...or is it just me, the alcoholic speaking?
Thoughts?
Thoughts?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Paris
Paulina and I have been traveling for three straight weekends. We have been living out of duffel bags. We are tired as shit. No matter, Paris, here we come!
Now the plan wasn't to go to Paris so soon. It's right here, we can go whenever. But the plan was for Shubert and me to meet in Paris. Paulina finds a hotel that's allegedly in Montmartre (it's not) and we book it for three people. Our train gets in a little late and we get lost trying to find the hotel because Parisian metro is retarded.
Sidenote, whoever told me Parisian metro is nice should be slapped. It's worse than the subway. I'd rather be on a 6 train going to Pelham than on any Parisian metro at night. The only credit I can give to their system is that they're more advanced than we are. They have the arrival times of the trains on a big board - the next one and the one after it.
We get into the miserable hotel and find Shubert sleeping on the top bunk. We wake him up, go eat and then go to the Sacre-Coeur basilica since we're near it (that's how far we are from central Paris. We're near the Sacre-Coeur. Whatever). We walk around and take pictures. Get the obligatory Nutella crepe, the usual. Coming back from Dublin I didn't feel well and I felt like I was walking a tightrope between sick and healthy... but something didn't feel right to me that Thursday.
We get back to the hotel and go to bed and it is the hottest fucking room I've ever been in. It was hot and stuff and just miserable. The air didn't move and the windows don't open because apparently it's a security thing. Wtf... really, I'm going to kill myself in Paris? Give me a break.
I wake up in a horrid mood because I didn't sleep and I am pretty sick. The feeling of wanting to die starts now. Shubert turns into a slave driver. We SEE EVERYTHING that one day. We were basically walking nonstop for about 12 hours. We saw the Arc de Triomphe (my life is almost complete, I can finally cross that off), Notre-Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the retarded Statue of Liberty, Hotel des Invalides, and probably other nonsense I can't remember. I was so sick and fed up I just had it with him.
My parents told me they were coming into Paris and my mother gave me the name of their hotel so we get down there and after looking and waiting, the concierge sees my dad and I yell, "PAPAAAAAAA!" and he and my mother run across the street. I tell them I'm sick so we go upstairs to their room where my mother gives me a ton of pills, my dad gives me money and some of the other stuff I requested. We get back to our hotel and somehow Shubert figures out how to open the window and I go to sleep in a drugged up and cool-air stupor.
Saturday morning wake up - I am even worse. Crap. We head to Versailles to meet Stephanie and Jessica. After schlepping around Versailles for several hours I have the idea to change my ticket and come back to Lyon that night. Paulina and I hop on a train at 8 and get to Lyon around ten. Self-medicate and pass out. Very good decision.
Thoughts on Paris, second time around: I think Paris is a dump. Yeah, around the monuments it's nice, but generally speaking, it's not a nice place.
I'm just thrilled we're taking the next few weeks off from traveling. I'm too tired and miss Lyon friends.
Now the plan wasn't to go to Paris so soon. It's right here, we can go whenever. But the plan was for Shubert and me to meet in Paris. Paulina finds a hotel that's allegedly in Montmartre (it's not) and we book it for three people. Our train gets in a little late and we get lost trying to find the hotel because Parisian metro is retarded.
Sidenote, whoever told me Parisian metro is nice should be slapped. It's worse than the subway. I'd rather be on a 6 train going to Pelham than on any Parisian metro at night. The only credit I can give to their system is that they're more advanced than we are. They have the arrival times of the trains on a big board - the next one and the one after it.
We get into the miserable hotel and find Shubert sleeping on the top bunk. We wake him up, go eat and then go to the Sacre-Coeur basilica since we're near it (that's how far we are from central Paris. We're near the Sacre-Coeur. Whatever). We walk around and take pictures. Get the obligatory Nutella crepe, the usual. Coming back from Dublin I didn't feel well and I felt like I was walking a tightrope between sick and healthy... but something didn't feel right to me that Thursday.
We get back to the hotel and go to bed and it is the hottest fucking room I've ever been in. It was hot and stuff and just miserable. The air didn't move and the windows don't open because apparently it's a security thing. Wtf... really, I'm going to kill myself in Paris? Give me a break.
I wake up in a horrid mood because I didn't sleep and I am pretty sick. The feeling of wanting to die starts now. Shubert turns into a slave driver. We SEE EVERYTHING that one day. We were basically walking nonstop for about 12 hours. We saw the Arc de Triomphe (my life is almost complete, I can finally cross that off), Notre-Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the retarded Statue of Liberty, Hotel des Invalides, and probably other nonsense I can't remember. I was so sick and fed up I just had it with him.
My parents told me they were coming into Paris and my mother gave me the name of their hotel so we get down there and after looking and waiting, the concierge sees my dad and I yell, "PAPAAAAAAA!" and he and my mother run across the street. I tell them I'm sick so we go upstairs to their room where my mother gives me a ton of pills, my dad gives me money and some of the other stuff I requested. We get back to our hotel and somehow Shubert figures out how to open the window and I go to sleep in a drugged up and cool-air stupor.
Saturday morning wake up - I am even worse. Crap. We head to Versailles to meet Stephanie and Jessica. After schlepping around Versailles for several hours I have the idea to change my ticket and come back to Lyon that night. Paulina and I hop on a train at 8 and get to Lyon around ten. Self-medicate and pass out. Very good decision.
Thoughts on Paris, second time around: I think Paris is a dump. Yeah, around the monuments it's nice, but generally speaking, it's not a nice place.
I'm just thrilled we're taking the next few weeks off from traveling. I'm too tired and miss Lyon friends.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Dublin
Seeing as how you all read the recap of the drunken bash known as my birthday, you know that Thursday, while experiencing the worst hangover my life thus far, I, along with Emi and Paulina, embarked onward to the Emerald Isle.
The journey to get to Dublin was a journey in itself. We needed to take a train to Paris and then catch a flight from CDG. Much more arduous after a heavy night of drinking. I passed out on the train and Paulina took a video of my head falling. TGV, which is the super-awesome train system, lets you off right in the airport. After running around like chickens without heads (it's a French airport after all) we find the gate and wait for the plane to board. Emi's sitting in front of me and Paulina but we have no one next to us. We both sprawl out on the three seats we have to share. We're passed out, facing each other with one leg on the seats. All of a sudden we hear a BOOM and jolt awake. We landed. No one woke us up. No one told us to fasten our seatbelts our put our seats up. They did, though, let us off on the tarmac! It was so cool. I am such a nerd but it was totally awesome.
I call Mikey, tell him we're tired and hungry. We hop on a bus and witness the tail end of the Irish celebrating Arthur's Day - the 250th birthday of Guiness. And I can't even imagine what the earlier part of the day was like because the end of it was absolutely insane. We get off the bus and Mikey's waiting there with one out of his 6 rooommates, Seth, from Denver. Tall and sooo cute. We walk back to their house and it's brick outside. They don't lie about Irish cold. Now Mikey and his roommates live in a house. We walk into the house. "Should we take off our shoes?" I ask. "No, better if you don't. There might be broken glass on the floor. Bill broke a lamp a few days ago." Uhhhhh, what?
To cut to the chase, the house was a fucking mess. The funny part is that before boarding we were taking bets on how dirty the place was and I didn't think it'd be that bad considering how anal Mikey is. Well, I was mistaken. It was so dirty it makes my blood pressure rise just thinking about it. After having the best kebabs ever on the dirty kitchen table, we go to bed. Friday morning we wake up relatively early because we want to do touristy sightseeing. We come downstairs and basically have seizures looking at the state of the kitchen. We can't take it so we start cleaning it. Paulina attacks the table and the stove and stuff while Emi and I have a go at the dishes. One of the other housemates, Gaurav (pronounced Garv) comes in with his friend Trisha from college, who is visiting from Redding, and we give him a verbal beating. It went something like, "HOW HARD IS IT TO CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES?! YOU MAKE US SICK!" And we felt sort of bad because Mikey, this other kid Teddy who was at Oktoberfest that weekend, and Gaurav are the clean ones. But whatever, we ripped him a new one. No big deal.
After cleaning, Gaurav offers to take us around with his friend Trisha, who's super sweet. We walk all around Dublin and end up at the Guiness Factory. The factory was really cool and they give you a complimentary pint with ticket purchase. I couldn't stomach it so I gave my pint to Paulina as Trisha gave her pint to Gaurav. Emi was a trooper; she drank all of hers. And then Paulina and Gaurav just shotgunned 2 pints. It was incredible. Paulina was so drunk at like 4 in the afternoon. Afterward we went for lunch and Mikey joined us - he ordered the weirdest things. We took a post-lunch walk to the Harp Bridge and the Spire before going back to the house and passing out before going out.
That night a gigantic fight ensued between my loving and myself so I'm just going to skip it. Although I did spend some time in Temple Bar, which was fun, but no matter. After what was in my opinion an absolutely disastrous Friday night, we woke up Saturday morning to go hiking. Paulina was absolutely dying to see green Irish countryside so we took a bus ride to Marlay Park, which was supposed to be the start of the Wicklow Way. Except it wasn't. After walking ten minutes to one part and then walking back to the Farmer's Market to get food and then walking back to where we started, we realized we weren't at the start of the Wicklow Way at all. It took a good 3 hours to get from point A to point B but it was so worth it. The view of Dublin from all the way up there was just gorgeous. Flipping cold, but gorgeous. Paulina got her nature fix. Mike and I made up. All was right with the world.
Until the trek down. I would rather walk up than walk down because walking down is just an unnatural movement for me. I have to work extra hard not go to flying downhill and it's just not fun. We finally got down and while waiting for the bus, me, Emi, and Paulina passed out leaving Mike to watch out for it.
After eating Irish-Thai food, which wasn't half bad, and lots of napping, we went out to Copper Face Jacks, which was a great Irish club/bar thing. Exponentially better than the fiasco that happened Friday night. Some Irish dude was in love with me and would come up to me every 10 minutes or so to kiss me on the cheek.
Sunday was time to go home. We got to board on the tarmac! It was just as awesome. We got into Lyon around 8, came home, and fell asleep. And it was good.
The journey to get to Dublin was a journey in itself. We needed to take a train to Paris and then catch a flight from CDG. Much more arduous after a heavy night of drinking. I passed out on the train and Paulina took a video of my head falling. TGV, which is the super-awesome train system, lets you off right in the airport. After running around like chickens without heads (it's a French airport after all) we find the gate and wait for the plane to board. Emi's sitting in front of me and Paulina but we have no one next to us. We both sprawl out on the three seats we have to share. We're passed out, facing each other with one leg on the seats. All of a sudden we hear a BOOM and jolt awake. We landed. No one woke us up. No one told us to fasten our seatbelts our put our seats up. They did, though, let us off on the tarmac! It was so cool. I am such a nerd but it was totally awesome.
I call Mikey, tell him we're tired and hungry. We hop on a bus and witness the tail end of the Irish celebrating Arthur's Day - the 250th birthday of Guiness. And I can't even imagine what the earlier part of the day was like because the end of it was absolutely insane. We get off the bus and Mikey's waiting there with one out of his 6 rooommates, Seth, from Denver. Tall and sooo cute. We walk back to their house and it's brick outside. They don't lie about Irish cold. Now Mikey and his roommates live in a house. We walk into the house. "Should we take off our shoes?" I ask. "No, better if you don't. There might be broken glass on the floor. Bill broke a lamp a few days ago." Uhhhhh, what?
To cut to the chase, the house was a fucking mess. The funny part is that before boarding we were taking bets on how dirty the place was and I didn't think it'd be that bad considering how anal Mikey is. Well, I was mistaken. It was so dirty it makes my blood pressure rise just thinking about it. After having the best kebabs ever on the dirty kitchen table, we go to bed. Friday morning we wake up relatively early because we want to do touristy sightseeing. We come downstairs and basically have seizures looking at the state of the kitchen. We can't take it so we start cleaning it. Paulina attacks the table and the stove and stuff while Emi and I have a go at the dishes. One of the other housemates, Gaurav (pronounced Garv) comes in with his friend Trisha from college, who is visiting from Redding, and we give him a verbal beating. It went something like, "HOW HARD IS IT TO CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES?! YOU MAKE US SICK!" And we felt sort of bad because Mikey, this other kid Teddy who was at Oktoberfest that weekend, and Gaurav are the clean ones. But whatever, we ripped him a new one. No big deal.
After cleaning, Gaurav offers to take us around with his friend Trisha, who's super sweet. We walk all around Dublin and end up at the Guiness Factory. The factory was really cool and they give you a complimentary pint with ticket purchase. I couldn't stomach it so I gave my pint to Paulina as Trisha gave her pint to Gaurav. Emi was a trooper; she drank all of hers. And then Paulina and Gaurav just shotgunned 2 pints. It was incredible. Paulina was so drunk at like 4 in the afternoon. Afterward we went for lunch and Mikey joined us - he ordered the weirdest things. We took a post-lunch walk to the Harp Bridge and the Spire before going back to the house and passing out before going out.
That night a gigantic fight ensued between my loving and myself so I'm just going to skip it. Although I did spend some time in Temple Bar, which was fun, but no matter. After what was in my opinion an absolutely disastrous Friday night, we woke up Saturday morning to go hiking. Paulina was absolutely dying to see green Irish countryside so we took a bus ride to Marlay Park, which was supposed to be the start of the Wicklow Way. Except it wasn't. After walking ten minutes to one part and then walking back to the Farmer's Market to get food and then walking back to where we started, we realized we weren't at the start of the Wicklow Way at all. It took a good 3 hours to get from point A to point B but it was so worth it. The view of Dublin from all the way up there was just gorgeous. Flipping cold, but gorgeous. Paulina got her nature fix. Mike and I made up. All was right with the world.
Until the trek down. I would rather walk up than walk down because walking down is just an unnatural movement for me. I have to work extra hard not go to flying downhill and it's just not fun. We finally got down and while waiting for the bus, me, Emi, and Paulina passed out leaving Mike to watch out for it.
After eating Irish-Thai food, which wasn't half bad, and lots of napping, we went out to Copper Face Jacks, which was a great Irish club/bar thing. Exponentially better than the fiasco that happened Friday night. Some Irish dude was in love with me and would come up to me every 10 minutes or so to kiss me on the cheek.
Sunday was time to go home. We got to board on the tarmac! It was just as awesome. We got into Lyon around 8, came home, and fell asleep. And it was good.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
What I Remember of My Birthday
Even though it was on a Wednesday, I knew I'd be able to do it big, just because everyone here doesn't really care about classes (myself included, especially since Wednesdays I only have class from 3-6). I decided to pregame by the river, like we do it, then go on to Ayers Rock, which is this awesome Aussie bar/club thing. Paulina was such a trooper because she had class Thursday at 8am. And then we had the train to Paris at 6pm to get to Dublin. Ouch.
I get home from class and start getting ready, modeling different attire while Paulina's knee-deep in Lysol in the bathtub (cough, Tanya). Meanwhile we're also making dinner. We had to be done by around 9, 9:15 so we could all meet up at this girl Cerise's residence and head down to Guillotière together around 9:30. This wasn't happening. Paulina said we were waiting for Stephanie and Jessica, which made no sense to me. None. Because Stephanie and Jessica LIVE in Guillotière. Maggie from upstairs asked me to get her and Maria when we were ready to head out. Jessica said they left at 8:50. We live ten minutes away. It's 9:24. "If they're not here by 9:30 I'm going to get pissed," I said. "What time is it?" Paulina asked. "9:24." I texted them 2 minutes later and they said they were a block away so I told Paulina I was going to get Maggie & Co (her French boyfriend Cyril's birthday was the same day, too). She tried to stop me from getting them and I kept saying it'd save time. I came upstairs and came back down in about 3 minutes. I walk into our flat with Maggie, Cyril, and Maria and there, standing, are Stephanie, Jessica, Paulina with balloons all over the place and a cake on the table with candles burning in it, singing Happy Birthday. Not only was I a deer caught in headlights, I was an embarrassed deer caught in headlights. Jessica starts cutting the cake while Paulina takes out this Litchi alcohol thing from the fridge and starts pouring that for everyone. Okay, I guess we'll pregame here.
They explained they were late because they ran to get the cake (delicious) and change and all that. "Where did all of these balloons come from?" I asked. "I blew them up while your bitch ass was in class," Paulina said. HAHAHA no wonder when I came home she was passed out.
After shoving cake into our mouths and changing arrangements, we hopped on the metro and went up to the river. I told Paulina to invite her French boo, Sebastien, who brought his friend I met once before, Benoit (Ben for short). Besides that, though, EVERYONE was there, and when I say everyone I mean it. Even British Ben, who I was in love with but not anymore. After I tried Cerise's pastis, which is the most vile thing on Earth, I gather part of the herd and we head down to Ayers, under the direction of French Ben. Along the way we found out it closes at 1 so we're like, okay, Flemmings after.
We get to Ayers and it is poppin'. We post up at the bar and start taking shots of this blue vodka mess. 4 shots in I am stone cold sober. And then everyone starts buying shots for the birthday girl. I need something stronger and quick. Chris (my favorite Kiwi, re: my profile pic on FB), Jerry, and Megan show up. "Chris, you can do anything. Get me a straight shot of tequila. Jerry, I'll take another blue vodka thing. Megan, I'll take different colored vodka thing." I downed three of those in quick succession and then the happiness followed. Ayers closed and the lot of us were steadily moving to Flemmings in Vieux Lyon. I decide to hop on John McClain's back - he's like 6'4. Carries me two blocks or something and out of nowhere Sebastien's head comes through my legs (haha) and I'm sitting on his shoulders. I steal his fagalish beret and I am on top of the world. He was deliberately wobbling me around and forcefully smashed us into a garbage dump thing. I had enough of his near death experiences so I hop on Chris instead. Now he kept trying to tip me into the river but he got me like around the corner from Flemmings. He wins. Truly a man with a mission.
I walk into Flemmings and there are even more people there. I see Brit Ben and tell him to take a tequila shot with me. Even before this shot, I was pretty drunk and he was just wasted beyond compare. He had trouble standing. Perfect opportunity. We take the shot. I walk over to Paulina and drunkenly ask her to find out if he likes me. I'm juvenile, I know. Meanwhile some French dude named Xavier is telling me I'm the most beautiful girl he's seen and I'm like, "dude, come oooooon now." Out of nowhere he's like, "So you go home with me?" He cut to the chase haha.
Now here's where my night starts to get fuzzy. I remember taking more shots with French Ben, who so obviously had a thing for me, then with Stephanie (?), then with .... okay, I can't remember, definitely more people...maybe Tom? Whatever. The bartender found out it was my birthday so he gave me a shot of something vodka tasting with whipped cream on top and a candle. Everyone sang happy birthday again :) I blew it out and swallowed it. Next to it was a vodka-kahlua disaster that I took also. Okay, I am at blackout drunk. Everything following this are stories people told me mixed with odd things I remember.
I think it was closing time, 3:30, for Flemmings. Come to think of it, I don't even know where Flemmings is. No matter. Everyone is saying their goodbyes to me (I think) and French Ben does the whole bisous thing. He kisses me on one cheek, then the other, and then he just kisses me, several times (sidenote: Apparently I told Jessica, Paulina and Stephanie: GIGGLE GIGGLE HE KISSED ME HAR HAR I think he likes me." To which Paulina said, "YOU THINK?!" But my recollection of this is sketchy, although I'm pretty positive it happened).
Anyway, I'm stumbling out with Matt and Megan, who said they'd take me home in a cab a) because Matt was staying over and b) Megan lives across the street. Apparently I sat on a bench and said I didn't want to move (can you blame me) and then Paulina yelled at me (as usual). She apparently went with Sebastien on bikes (explains why I was so upset I didn't know where she was) because she gets hella motion sick. Somehow, Matt and Megan found the last cab in Bellecour, but not before I peed in some bush. They stuff me in the back and I pass out. They wake me up what seems like a week later and I see the school. Fuck. I do not want to move. Now here's what I am really curious about - how I was able to punch the code in to get into the building. I remember I took my lenses out and I sat in a chair in a kitchen. Someone wakes me up. Paulina. Apparently I was slumped over in a near 90 degree angle. Someone else picks me up and takes off my jacket. Sebastien. He grabs me under the arms, walks me into my room, puts me to bed and covers me. He tells Matt to go sleep next to me.
I wake up around 7 because I have to pee. I look next to me and see Matt. What happened last night? I look down and see I am still in my clothes. Also realize I am still very drunk. I hear moving - Paulina getting ready to go to class. I have worst dry mouth in history. Can't even open it to drunk. I go to the bathroom to change, wash off my face. Collapse into bed. Pass out some more. Hear Paulina walk in again, send Matt on his way. Too hungover to sleep. Look around, the flat is a MESS.
We shuffle out of bed. Paulina sits down and starts eating leftover birthday cake. Man that was a sad sight haha. Around 1:30 I decided to shower to feel like I came back to life. Eat some bread to mop up the alcohol in my body. We packed and then headed for train to Paris and then flight to Dublin.
Birthday French Style = EPIC.
I get home from class and start getting ready, modeling different attire while Paulina's knee-deep in Lysol in the bathtub (cough, Tanya). Meanwhile we're also making dinner. We had to be done by around 9, 9:15 so we could all meet up at this girl Cerise's residence and head down to Guillotière together around 9:30. This wasn't happening. Paulina said we were waiting for Stephanie and Jessica, which made no sense to me. None. Because Stephanie and Jessica LIVE in Guillotière. Maggie from upstairs asked me to get her and Maria when we were ready to head out. Jessica said they left at 8:50. We live ten minutes away. It's 9:24. "If they're not here by 9:30 I'm going to get pissed," I said. "What time is it?" Paulina asked. "9:24." I texted them 2 minutes later and they said they were a block away so I told Paulina I was going to get Maggie & Co (her French boyfriend Cyril's birthday was the same day, too). She tried to stop me from getting them and I kept saying it'd save time. I came upstairs and came back down in about 3 minutes. I walk into our flat with Maggie, Cyril, and Maria and there, standing, are Stephanie, Jessica, Paulina with balloons all over the place and a cake on the table with candles burning in it, singing Happy Birthday. Not only was I a deer caught in headlights, I was an embarrassed deer caught in headlights. Jessica starts cutting the cake while Paulina takes out this Litchi alcohol thing from the fridge and starts pouring that for everyone. Okay, I guess we'll pregame here.
They explained they were late because they ran to get the cake (delicious) and change and all that. "Where did all of these balloons come from?" I asked. "I blew them up while your bitch ass was in class," Paulina said. HAHAHA no wonder when I came home she was passed out.
After shoving cake into our mouths and changing arrangements, we hopped on the metro and went up to the river. I told Paulina to invite her French boo, Sebastien, who brought his friend I met once before, Benoit (Ben for short). Besides that, though, EVERYONE was there, and when I say everyone I mean it. Even British Ben, who I was in love with but not anymore. After I tried Cerise's pastis, which is the most vile thing on Earth, I gather part of the herd and we head down to Ayers, under the direction of French Ben. Along the way we found out it closes at 1 so we're like, okay, Flemmings after.
We get to Ayers and it is poppin'. We post up at the bar and start taking shots of this blue vodka mess. 4 shots in I am stone cold sober. And then everyone starts buying shots for the birthday girl. I need something stronger and quick. Chris (my favorite Kiwi, re: my profile pic on FB), Jerry, and Megan show up. "Chris, you can do anything. Get me a straight shot of tequila. Jerry, I'll take another blue vodka thing. Megan, I'll take different colored vodka thing." I downed three of those in quick succession and then the happiness followed. Ayers closed and the lot of us were steadily moving to Flemmings in Vieux Lyon. I decide to hop on John McClain's back - he's like 6'4. Carries me two blocks or something and out of nowhere Sebastien's head comes through my legs (haha) and I'm sitting on his shoulders. I steal his fagalish beret and I am on top of the world. He was deliberately wobbling me around and forcefully smashed us into a garbage dump thing. I had enough of his near death experiences so I hop on Chris instead. Now he kept trying to tip me into the river but he got me like around the corner from Flemmings. He wins. Truly a man with a mission.
I walk into Flemmings and there are even more people there. I see Brit Ben and tell him to take a tequila shot with me. Even before this shot, I was pretty drunk and he was just wasted beyond compare. He had trouble standing. Perfect opportunity. We take the shot. I walk over to Paulina and drunkenly ask her to find out if he likes me. I'm juvenile, I know. Meanwhile some French dude named Xavier is telling me I'm the most beautiful girl he's seen and I'm like, "dude, come oooooon now." Out of nowhere he's like, "So you go home with me?" He cut to the chase haha.
Now here's where my night starts to get fuzzy. I remember taking more shots with French Ben, who so obviously had a thing for me, then with Stephanie (?), then with .... okay, I can't remember, definitely more people...maybe Tom? Whatever. The bartender found out it was my birthday so he gave me a shot of something vodka tasting with whipped cream on top and a candle. Everyone sang happy birthday again :) I blew it out and swallowed it. Next to it was a vodka-kahlua disaster that I took also. Okay, I am at blackout drunk. Everything following this are stories people told me mixed with odd things I remember.
I think it was closing time, 3:30, for Flemmings. Come to think of it, I don't even know where Flemmings is. No matter. Everyone is saying their goodbyes to me (I think) and French Ben does the whole bisous thing. He kisses me on one cheek, then the other, and then he just kisses me, several times (sidenote: Apparently I told Jessica, Paulina and Stephanie: GIGGLE GIGGLE HE KISSED ME HAR HAR I think he likes me." To which Paulina said, "YOU THINK?!" But my recollection of this is sketchy, although I'm pretty positive it happened).
Anyway, I'm stumbling out with Matt and Megan, who said they'd take me home in a cab a) because Matt was staying over and b) Megan lives across the street. Apparently I sat on a bench and said I didn't want to move (can you blame me) and then Paulina yelled at me (as usual). She apparently went with Sebastien on bikes (explains why I was so upset I didn't know where she was) because she gets hella motion sick. Somehow, Matt and Megan found the last cab in Bellecour, but not before I peed in some bush. They stuff me in the back and I pass out. They wake me up what seems like a week later and I see the school. Fuck. I do not want to move. Now here's what I am really curious about - how I was able to punch the code in to get into the building. I remember I took my lenses out and I sat in a chair in a kitchen. Someone wakes me up. Paulina. Apparently I was slumped over in a near 90 degree angle. Someone else picks me up and takes off my jacket. Sebastien. He grabs me under the arms, walks me into my room, puts me to bed and covers me. He tells Matt to go sleep next to me.
I wake up around 7 because I have to pee. I look next to me and see Matt. What happened last night? I look down and see I am still in my clothes. Also realize I am still very drunk. I hear moving - Paulina getting ready to go to class. I have worst dry mouth in history. Can't even open it to drunk. I go to the bathroom to change, wash off my face. Collapse into bed. Pass out some more. Hear Paulina walk in again, send Matt on his way. Too hungover to sleep. Look around, the flat is a MESS.
We shuffle out of bed. Paulina sits down and starts eating leftover birthday cake. Man that was a sad sight haha. Around 1:30 I decided to shower to feel like I came back to life. Eat some bread to mop up the alcohol in my body. We packed and then headed for train to Paris and then flight to Dublin.
Birthday French Style = EPIC.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Nice and Monaco
Herein follows the story of the first-ever, cherry-poppin' study abroad trip. This one led us to Nice and Monaco.
Jessica, Stephanie, Paulina and I had tickets leaving from Lyon to Nice at 6:35 am Friday morning so we could get to Nice around 11. Long ass train ride. However, seeing as how P and I hate packing more than life itself, we went out to a party at a flat near ours. We knew this was a really bad idea but we also knew they would be pregaming and then heading out to Vieux Lyon, in which case we'd head back home as they were leaving to center city. Everyone started filtering out around midnight and we got back home around 12:30.
Now we really to pack. Shit. If we had to be at the train station say 6:15, we needed to be up before 5 to get ready and get out. A lot of fumbling and swearing later, we got to bed around 2:30. In what seemed like 5 minutes, the alarm rang. Ugh. Fast-forwarding, the train left at 6:35 sharp and we were seated right next to Le Bar. Score.
After making obscene amounts of noise for about an hour, we decided to nap, until loud assholes boarded at Marseilles, but we knocked out when they got off at Aix-en-Provence. However, I noticed the sky was the same color at 8am as it was at 5am. Uh oh. Horrific thunderstorm ensued while on train. I'm the only one who brought an umbrella. Shit.
We finally disembark, ass numbness kicks in, and it's dripping a little but cold as all hell, at least for Nice. We find our hotel and scour for food, but what happens next - it starts pouring and thunderstorming. Awwww yeah! Seeing as how it was brick cold on the train, we got no sleep, and it was wet and cold in Nice, I stocked up on some Vitamin C as we wandered through the city. Sure it was raining. Hard. But we made the best of it. A bunch of ridiculous crap happened along the way but the city itself is beautiful. We schlepped up and down Nice and finally crawled back to our hotel. We decided to take a nap so we would be energized by the time Jerry, Daniel and all of the Spanish arrived. Well, Jerry and Daniel took the wrong train because they're retarded.
At around 10:30 pm the four of us went out for dinner and during the 25 minute walk to the hotel, it started to thunderstorm like nobody's business. I left my umbrella in the room because it really looked like it was clearing. Let's just say we owned the Wet Dog Chic look. We werked it fo' sho. Jerry and Daniel got in around 1am as we were drying off.
Saturday morning we got up super early to get to Monaco. No one else was able to open their eyes because they went to some gay club the night before and got home at 5 while we take our sightseeing seriously. Jerry did join us, though. We had a nice French breakfast, facing the ominous dark cloud coming our way. We hopped on the train to Monaco and a half hour we were there. So was the rain. All 13 or 14 of us (Daniel and the Spanish made it as well) walked around Monaco for hours and it was sooooooo gorgeous. Smelled like Park Avenue but worse. The Spanish saw some Spanish socialite and I don't even remember what the Bentley, Rolls, Ferrari, exotic car count was. The Monte Carlo though was out of this world. No cameras allowed inside. By midday the rain stopped, which was nice. I can't understand why the Monaco Royal Family palace thing needs guards. Who the hell is going to rob/attack/hijack/assassinate the most useless people on Earth? For reals now.
Sadly on the way back we didn't get to stop at Villefranche which has absolutely breathtaking views of the coast, but what we saw from Princess Grace's garden and the like was also just as amazing. I learned I can't fucking stand traveling in large groups, or traveling with the Spanish, considering I don't even like the Spanish. Hence why Dublin was a better trip and the others will be even better.
Sunday was another half-day of touring Nice before our train back to Lyon. Which was over an hour and a half late, which means we got home over an hour and a half late. But it was one of the best times of my life, sitting on that train, with my 3 New York bitches and wild'n'out. Getting up for an 8am class blew hard but it was all in good fun.
All in all, great first trip. Nice was nothing too special, but Monaco was fantastic.
Jessica, Stephanie, Paulina and I had tickets leaving from Lyon to Nice at 6:35 am Friday morning so we could get to Nice around 11. Long ass train ride. However, seeing as how P and I hate packing more than life itself, we went out to a party at a flat near ours. We knew this was a really bad idea but we also knew they would be pregaming and then heading out to Vieux Lyon, in which case we'd head back home as they were leaving to center city. Everyone started filtering out around midnight and we got back home around 12:30.
Now we really to pack. Shit. If we had to be at the train station say 6:15, we needed to be up before 5 to get ready and get out. A lot of fumbling and swearing later, we got to bed around 2:30. In what seemed like 5 minutes, the alarm rang. Ugh. Fast-forwarding, the train left at 6:35 sharp and we were seated right next to Le Bar. Score.
After making obscene amounts of noise for about an hour, we decided to nap, until loud assholes boarded at Marseilles, but we knocked out when they got off at Aix-en-Provence. However, I noticed the sky was the same color at 8am as it was at 5am. Uh oh. Horrific thunderstorm ensued while on train. I'm the only one who brought an umbrella. Shit.
We finally disembark, ass numbness kicks in, and it's dripping a little but cold as all hell, at least for Nice. We find our hotel and scour for food, but what happens next - it starts pouring and thunderstorming. Awwww yeah! Seeing as how it was brick cold on the train, we got no sleep, and it was wet and cold in Nice, I stocked up on some Vitamin C as we wandered through the city. Sure it was raining. Hard. But we made the best of it. A bunch of ridiculous crap happened along the way but the city itself is beautiful. We schlepped up and down Nice and finally crawled back to our hotel. We decided to take a nap so we would be energized by the time Jerry, Daniel and all of the Spanish arrived. Well, Jerry and Daniel took the wrong train because they're retarded.
At around 10:30 pm the four of us went out for dinner and during the 25 minute walk to the hotel, it started to thunderstorm like nobody's business. I left my umbrella in the room because it really looked like it was clearing. Let's just say we owned the Wet Dog Chic look. We werked it fo' sho. Jerry and Daniel got in around 1am as we were drying off.
Saturday morning we got up super early to get to Monaco. No one else was able to open their eyes because they went to some gay club the night before and got home at 5 while we take our sightseeing seriously. Jerry did join us, though. We had a nice French breakfast, facing the ominous dark cloud coming our way. We hopped on the train to Monaco and a half hour we were there. So was the rain. All 13 or 14 of us (Daniel and the Spanish made it as well) walked around Monaco for hours and it was sooooooo gorgeous. Smelled like Park Avenue but worse. The Spanish saw some Spanish socialite and I don't even remember what the Bentley, Rolls, Ferrari, exotic car count was. The Monte Carlo though was out of this world. No cameras allowed inside. By midday the rain stopped, which was nice. I can't understand why the Monaco Royal Family palace thing needs guards. Who the hell is going to rob/attack/hijack/assassinate the most useless people on Earth? For reals now.
Sadly on the way back we didn't get to stop at Villefranche which has absolutely breathtaking views of the coast, but what we saw from Princess Grace's garden and the like was also just as amazing. I learned I can't fucking stand traveling in large groups, or traveling with the Spanish, considering I don't even like the Spanish. Hence why Dublin was a better trip and the others will be even better.
Sunday was another half-day of touring Nice before our train back to Lyon. Which was over an hour and a half late, which means we got home over an hour and a half late. But it was one of the best times of my life, sitting on that train, with my 3 New York bitches and wild'n'out. Getting up for an 8am class blew hard but it was all in good fun.
All in all, great first trip. Nice was nothing too special, but Monaco was fantastic.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Lyonly Planet
It's odd but in its own way, being here can be quite lonely.
Don't get me wrong - everything is fantastic. I'm having beyond a wonderful time, especially considering there's a lot of travel coming up (more on that later).
But after you meet all of these people, and meet more and more as the days go by, you're not particularly close to any of them. Maybe this claim is a little premature considering I haven't been here for that long. But in my case, there's Paulina. I don't know what I'd do without her. Living alone seems so strange and terrible after living with her for these few weeks. We have nightly conferences over food that will probably be a fond memory long after this semester is over.
I finally caught up with all of Mad Men last night. I sold my OL ticket because I thought I'd have a class that let out too late but it was canceled this week. Oh well, I don't regret it. Even though Lyon won against Florentina, it was cold and wet yesterday. I was, though, all by lonesome last night considering Paulina had a rendez-vous with Sebastian, a non-icky French boy. Probably because he's not a boy at all, but a 27-year old dude. Very sweet though. Bought me tequila shots. Instant brownie points.
I came here thinking people would be different, especially after leaving New York and it's deep abyss of nauseatingly repetitive personalities. Maybe I will be surprised. Maybe they will be different. I haven't been here nearly long enough to decide if they or if they aren't.
What I can say is that I thought I would be blown away and seriously intimidated by the amount of international smarts I would encounter. I'm not. A lot of these people are as dumb as a pile of bricks. That landed on a billy goat. So, so stupid.
Although most of the students I've met here have significant others back home, I can't help but feel that they're all looking for someone special. I can't blame them. Maybe I am, too. There's a lot more hope in a new, fresh setting. I suppose under all of my layers of cynicism, part of me is still stupidly a romantic.
It's just so easy to feel lonely.
Don't get me wrong - everything is fantastic. I'm having beyond a wonderful time, especially considering there's a lot of travel coming up (more on that later).
But after you meet all of these people, and meet more and more as the days go by, you're not particularly close to any of them. Maybe this claim is a little premature considering I haven't been here for that long. But in my case, there's Paulina. I don't know what I'd do without her. Living alone seems so strange and terrible after living with her for these few weeks. We have nightly conferences over food that will probably be a fond memory long after this semester is over.
I finally caught up with all of Mad Men last night. I sold my OL ticket because I thought I'd have a class that let out too late but it was canceled this week. Oh well, I don't regret it. Even though Lyon won against Florentina, it was cold and wet yesterday. I was, though, all by lonesome last night considering Paulina had a rendez-vous with Sebastian, a non-icky French boy. Probably because he's not a boy at all, but a 27-year old dude. Very sweet though. Bought me tequila shots. Instant brownie points.
I came here thinking people would be different, especially after leaving New York and it's deep abyss of nauseatingly repetitive personalities. Maybe I will be surprised. Maybe they will be different. I haven't been here nearly long enough to decide if they or if they aren't.
What I can say is that I thought I would be blown away and seriously intimidated by the amount of international smarts I would encounter. I'm not. A lot of these people are as dumb as a pile of bricks. That landed on a billy goat. So, so stupid.
Although most of the students I've met here have significant others back home, I can't help but feel that they're all looking for someone special. I can't blame them. Maybe I am, too. There's a lot more hope in a new, fresh setting. I suppose under all of my layers of cynicism, part of me is still stupidly a romantic.
It's just so easy to feel lonely.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Voulez-vous..
A cute French boy (shocking, I know) was standing next to me at the crosswalk near my flat. I was coming from the Travelex in Part-Dieu and I went all by myself. Took the metro all by myself. He asked me if that gigantic building over there :points: was the Manufacture des Tabacs, which it was. But then he said something else and when he saw the deer caught in headlights look on my face and my mumbled "Pardonne, Je viens de New Yawk" excuse, he graciously apologized.
I wish I knew more French.
I wish I knew more French.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Le Weekend
I have some time before I go off to French so I figured to update. As I'm writing this someone is blasting French rap and it's hysterical.
Actual classes start Monday the 14th so I'll finally have a normal schedule I'll be able to follow.
Friday night, le weekend descended upon us. We all said, "Give me fierce!" and fierce it was.
All week there was talk that this Australian kid was throwing a party at his flat. His name changed continuously from Jimmy to Max and then back to Jimmy. Turns out his name is Max. How he managed to fit around 80 people in the flat and then another 60-70 or so in the garden/backyard/courtyard kind of thing baffles me even now, and I'm sober now. Friday night I was for serious drunk. However, I didn't mix. I stuck to my tequila. Several people offered me wine and I gave the same, "Fool, is you crazy?" look.
The party was intense. Lot of great people. Pictures posted on Facebook. This one kid though, Josef, was like paparazzi. He snapped all of these pictures. There are a few in particular I really want to get my hands on - they're of these two dudes dumping me into a fountain. Not completely but they did dunk my feet in.
Saturday morning roomie and I (grudgingly) woke up early to open an account with BNP Paribas, which is affiliated with Bank of America. They gave us 50 euros for opening the account, too. Woot. Then we went to guy groceries. We finally decided to walk into a patisserie and bought four croissants. We came home, made croissant-banana-nutella sandwiches with milk. Ate them in silence and went back to bed. Friends, it was glorious.
Then, after making dinner some hours later, this French kid was throwing a party at his flat as well. We went and encountered more than several people from the night before. It's so odd because when I go to a house party, I'm not entirely casual, but I'm not dressed in my Sunday best, either. There were these girls who came in teeny dresses and heels and we're just in jeans, hanging out. Maybe they had some foresight that they were going clubbing later. I did not have this foresight. In the cold light of sobriety, some of these girls were rather obnoxious. The Canadians being the biggest offenders. They took on the masks of Valley Girls and were Facebook posing, screeching and generally being quite annoying.
At around 12:30 in the morning, the 80 or so people crammed into this tiny ass flat decided to go to a club called Le Fridge. This is when Paulina and I peaced out for several reasons. It was really cold, we didn't feel like changing, and we had Ferrero Rocher ice cream in our Le Fridge. We left and that was that. One of the Canadian girls ended up hooking up with an icky French dude. Need I say more?
Sunday was just a chill day since basically everything is closed here. Today I went to get my SNCF pass that gives you half off all train fares, which is awesome. When I buy my first ticket, this thing will basically pay for itself. Tonight at 10 is a party thrown for us on behalf of the university in Vieux Lyon. Considering it'll last until 3 or 4 in the morning, they canceled all early classes. Ah, the French.
By the way, I am eventually moving to London or Australia. The men are just made better there. :)
Actual classes start Monday the 14th so I'll finally have a normal schedule I'll be able to follow.
Friday night, le weekend descended upon us. We all said, "Give me fierce!" and fierce it was.
All week there was talk that this Australian kid was throwing a party at his flat. His name changed continuously from Jimmy to Max and then back to Jimmy. Turns out his name is Max. How he managed to fit around 80 people in the flat and then another 60-70 or so in the garden/backyard/courtyard kind of thing baffles me even now, and I'm sober now. Friday night I was for serious drunk. However, I didn't mix. I stuck to my tequila. Several people offered me wine and I gave the same, "Fool, is you crazy?" look.
The party was intense. Lot of great people. Pictures posted on Facebook. This one kid though, Josef, was like paparazzi. He snapped all of these pictures. There are a few in particular I really want to get my hands on - they're of these two dudes dumping me into a fountain. Not completely but they did dunk my feet in.
Saturday morning roomie and I (grudgingly) woke up early to open an account with BNP Paribas, which is affiliated with Bank of America. They gave us 50 euros for opening the account, too. Woot. Then we went to guy groceries. We finally decided to walk into a patisserie and bought four croissants. We came home, made croissant-banana-nutella sandwiches with milk. Ate them in silence and went back to bed. Friends, it was glorious.
Then, after making dinner some hours later, this French kid was throwing a party at his flat as well. We went and encountered more than several people from the night before. It's so odd because when I go to a house party, I'm not entirely casual, but I'm not dressed in my Sunday best, either. There were these girls who came in teeny dresses and heels and we're just in jeans, hanging out. Maybe they had some foresight that they were going clubbing later. I did not have this foresight. In the cold light of sobriety, some of these girls were rather obnoxious. The Canadians being the biggest offenders. They took on the masks of Valley Girls and were Facebook posing, screeching and generally being quite annoying.
At around 12:30 in the morning, the 80 or so people crammed into this tiny ass flat decided to go to a club called Le Fridge. This is when Paulina and I peaced out for several reasons. It was really cold, we didn't feel like changing, and we had Ferrero Rocher ice cream in our Le Fridge. We left and that was that. One of the Canadian girls ended up hooking up with an icky French dude. Need I say more?
Sunday was just a chill day since basically everything is closed here. Today I went to get my SNCF pass that gives you half off all train fares, which is awesome. When I buy my first ticket, this thing will basically pay for itself. Tonight at 10 is a party thrown for us on behalf of the university in Vieux Lyon. Considering it'll last until 3 or 4 in the morning, they canceled all early classes. Ah, the French.
By the way, I am eventually moving to London or Australia. The men are just made better there. :)
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Indian Summer Lyon Style
It has been a crazy few days. Getting oriented is not so much difficult as it is tiresome. We, as in the whole lot of us - more on them later - want to get TCL passes, which is the French version of a Metrocard. For 25 euros a month you can take any form of transport, be it bus, tram, or metro, an unlimited number of times. But, in order to get that, you need to jump through 16 hoops of fire and then balance on a chair on your head while picking your nose with both hands.
Mmmm, I love the smell of a disorganized bureaucracy in the morning.
As of right now there's a group of us:
Paulina, my awesome roommate.
Daniel, a 27-year old student from North Carolina who is the sweetest Southern gentleman anyone can find.
Eden, a dude from Hawaii Pacific who's pretty cool.
Sina, from Munich, who is super sweet. Her birthday is 2 days before mine.
Hannah, cool chick from Australia
Emi, our Baruch sister
Joe, a half-Japanese/half-UK kid who we call Texas. Because he goes to a school in Texas.
Brent, a laid-back quiet dude from Vancouver.
And we're just adding more as the days go by.
It's looking like an Indian Summer for Lyon. It's not outright hot - it's not hot absolutely everywhere you go, but when that sun hits my bed at around 10 am (because the curtains are fucked up - dont ask), it's roasting up in here. In the shade, though, it's quite cool.
At the time of this writing, I'm preparing to experience my first hardcore Thunderstorm a la Lyonnais. It is pitch black outside. And very, very angry.
Monday we had our first day of orientation. There was a lot of BS administrative information and then we had an hour break before more crap. During this hour, which ended up being 12-2 (love the French), we ate and had a beer. Yes, I had a huge beer at one in the afternoon. And then what happened? It went right to my head. So I'm sitting in this hot ass auditorium with another 250 people and it is boring as shit and I passed oooooooout. But so did everyone else.
We went to Carrefour, which is like France's Wal-Mart. It is MASSIVE.
It looks like my schedule so far is Monday-Thursday, possibly Wednesday which is great for weekend trips.
This language barrier is huge but really funny. Food shopping is such a trial but well worth it. Doing anything that involves the locals is just exasperating. I can imagine how interesting going to the farmer's market on Sunday will be.
"Uhhhh, je voudrais un kilo du fromage."
"Quel fromage?"
"Uhhh, that one."
"Quoi?"
"What?"
"QUOI?"
I shudder to think.
Dublin still seems like a go for my birthday. It's hard to believe I haven't even been here a week yet. It feels like ages.
More to come!
PS. I have my address and my mailbox. WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CARE PACKAGES FROM CERTAIN PEOPLES?
Gurvich Jenny
5 Bis Avenue Frères Lumière, Apt. R402
69008 Lyon, France
Mmmm, I love the smell of a disorganized bureaucracy in the morning.
As of right now there's a group of us:
Paulina, my awesome roommate.
Daniel, a 27-year old student from North Carolina who is the sweetest Southern gentleman anyone can find.
Eden, a dude from Hawaii Pacific who's pretty cool.
Sina, from Munich, who is super sweet. Her birthday is 2 days before mine.
Hannah, cool chick from Australia
Emi, our Baruch sister
Joe, a half-Japanese/half-UK kid who we call Texas. Because he goes to a school in Texas.
Brent, a laid-back quiet dude from Vancouver.
And we're just adding more as the days go by.
It's looking like an Indian Summer for Lyon. It's not outright hot - it's not hot absolutely everywhere you go, but when that sun hits my bed at around 10 am (because the curtains are fucked up - dont ask), it's roasting up in here. In the shade, though, it's quite cool.
At the time of this writing, I'm preparing to experience my first hardcore Thunderstorm a la Lyonnais. It is pitch black outside. And very, very angry.
Monday we had our first day of orientation. There was a lot of BS administrative information and then we had an hour break before more crap. During this hour, which ended up being 12-2 (love the French), we ate and had a beer. Yes, I had a huge beer at one in the afternoon. And then what happened? It went right to my head. So I'm sitting in this hot ass auditorium with another 250 people and it is boring as shit and I passed oooooooout. But so did everyone else.
We went to Carrefour, which is like France's Wal-Mart. It is MASSIVE.
It looks like my schedule so far is Monday-Thursday, possibly Wednesday which is great for weekend trips.
This language barrier is huge but really funny. Food shopping is such a trial but well worth it. Doing anything that involves the locals is just exasperating. I can imagine how interesting going to the farmer's market on Sunday will be.
"Uhhhh, je voudrais un kilo du fromage."
"Quel fromage?"
"Uhhh, that one."
"Quoi?"
"What?"
"QUOI?"
I shudder to think.
Dublin still seems like a go for my birthday. It's hard to believe I haven't even been here a week yet. It feels like ages.
More to come!
PS. I have my address and my mailbox. WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CARE PACKAGES FROM CERTAIN PEOPLES?
Gurvich Jenny
5 Bis Avenue Frères Lumière, Apt. R402
69008 Lyon, France
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Lyon!
Marianna has started a fad so I will mass blog the events of Lyon and surrounding areas. As in Europe. And all of you will read them. MWAHAHAAAAA.
As for now, jetlagged like nobody's business. Will elaborate in detail later. Not on the jetlag, but the general experience. One being how French boys are icky (SHOCK!). And my big jar of Nutella.
As for now, jetlagged like nobody's business. Will elaborate in detail later. Not on the jetlag, but the general experience. One being how French boys are icky (SHOCK!). And my big jar of Nutella.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Since We're On the Subject...
My daily routine consists of reading several websites, one of which is Britain's trash tabloid Daily Mail. Celebrity gossip being one of my guilty pleasures, that trash paper is the place to go. Occasionally, however, they have interesting, normally grotesque pieces that attract my attention. I first read about the Josef Fritzl case on the Daily Mail when it broke.
So today I'm browsing over my cup of Flavia garbage and I see this.
Ugh. Are you serious?
Like I said before, I'm the farthest thing from maternal. Maybe this instinct is buried inside me somewhere, under all the sentiments that find the thought of children revolting and actual children not cute at all. I'm too selfish for children. At least I think so.
But if I wanted to have children in the future, I wouldn't wait until after I was 35. Nor would I lie about my age to get obscenely expensive IVF treatments. Women have a biological clock for a reason and it ticks louder as we get older for a reason. And then it stops ticking at a certain point in our lives, at a certain age for a reason. You didn't have kids when you had the chance and now you want them? Too bad. Game over.
There are lots of amazing things science has done not only in the realm of women's health and children - stem cells, antiretrovirals, etc. But where does it stop? When is enough really enough? These two infants are growing up orphaned because their mother was a selfish cunt and if I didn't feel bad for the twins, I'd say good riddance that she's dead. Becoming a mother used to be a selfless act, where a woman loved her children more than herself and it wasn't about her.
Children aren't pets where if you check out early it's not that big of a deal. This bitch died less than 3 years after she had twin boys at 67. Now one of her relatives is in charge of these boys. This is so saddening and infuriating at the same time. That women deserved her rapid demise, just not with two infant boys who have no one left to call mom. Good going, modern science. Next time, try having, you know, limits.
So today I'm browsing over my cup of Flavia garbage and I see this.
Ugh. Are you serious?
Like I said before, I'm the farthest thing from maternal. Maybe this instinct is buried inside me somewhere, under all the sentiments that find the thought of children revolting and actual children not cute at all. I'm too selfish for children. At least I think so.
But if I wanted to have children in the future, I wouldn't wait until after I was 35. Nor would I lie about my age to get obscenely expensive IVF treatments. Women have a biological clock for a reason and it ticks louder as we get older for a reason. And then it stops ticking at a certain point in our lives, at a certain age for a reason. You didn't have kids when you had the chance and now you want them? Too bad. Game over.
There are lots of amazing things science has done not only in the realm of women's health and children - stem cells, antiretrovirals, etc. But where does it stop? When is enough really enough? These two infants are growing up orphaned because their mother was a selfish cunt and if I didn't feel bad for the twins, I'd say good riddance that she's dead. Becoming a mother used to be a selfless act, where a woman loved her children more than herself and it wasn't about her.
Children aren't pets where if you check out early it's not that big of a deal. This bitch died less than 3 years after she had twin boys at 67. Now one of her relatives is in charge of these boys. This is so saddening and infuriating at the same time. That women deserved her rapid demise, just not with two infant boys who have no one left to call mom. Good going, modern science. Next time, try having, you know, limits.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
MTV Needs To Go. Immediately.
As I was aimlessly flipping through channels in my bored post-operative stupor, I landed on MTV. I haven't watched in MTV a minute and didn't really miss its vapid programming, but when I saw "16 and Pregnant," I felt like I had to stick around for this trainwreck.
First of all, why is being sixteen and pregnant something to exploit? Which executive has his head so far up his ass (or her head and ass) that they were like, "I've got it! We don't play music anymore, because, just why, but a show called "16 and Pregnant" is our ticket to a new demographic." And which demographic is this? Sluts, whores, and American trash?
Secondly, so, I'm watching this, in such disbelief that I need to ask someone else if she had seen this show before. The first and last and only episode I saw revolved around some idiotic highschool cheerleader with the intellectual capacity to rival a billygoat who had sex with her "possessive, jealous" ex-boyfriend and OOPS, is pregnant.
So these MUSIC Television cameras follow her around as she houses this parasite inside her and in true fairytale form, her parents are okay with her being pregnant and give her the decision as to what to do with it. Given that she's 4 months pregnant when her parents find out, abortion is out of the question and they offer the idea of adoption. StupidBitch mulls it over and decides she wants to keep her baby girl. She tells her OBGYN she doesn't want to breastfeed because boobs will become saggy. I shit you not.
When did being pregnant at sixteen become okay? If I got pregnant now, much less at sixteen, that shit would not fly at my house, let me tell you. Besides being beaten, disowned, disembowled, humiliated, killed, strangled, starved, and burned, that baby would at the very least be aborted.
But before aborting anything, HOW how HOW does anyone manage to get pregnant in this day and age? I mean, really. Condoms; male and female, birth control, Plan B... I thought sex was idiotproof. Apparently not. I was horrendously mistaken.
Why is this something to be proud of? The kid who knocked you up can probably be tried for stautory rape, whether it was consensual or not.. and if you're lucky you're in high school. And now. Your life is over. But it's okay. MTV is going to legitimize teen pregnancy for you.
Good going, MTV. You were a pathetic excuse for a network to begin with but now I know if however many years into the future my daughter gets pregnant, it's because MTV made it cool.
First of all, why is being sixteen and pregnant something to exploit? Which executive has his head so far up his ass (or her head and ass) that they were like, "I've got it! We don't play music anymore, because, just why, but a show called "16 and Pregnant" is our ticket to a new demographic." And which demographic is this? Sluts, whores, and American trash?
Secondly, so, I'm watching this, in such disbelief that I need to ask someone else if she had seen this show before. The first and last and only episode I saw revolved around some idiotic highschool cheerleader with the intellectual capacity to rival a billygoat who had sex with her "possessive, jealous" ex-boyfriend and OOPS, is pregnant.
So these MUSIC Television cameras follow her around as she houses this parasite inside her and in true fairytale form, her parents are okay with her being pregnant and give her the decision as to what to do with it. Given that she's 4 months pregnant when her parents find out, abortion is out of the question and they offer the idea of adoption. StupidBitch mulls it over and decides she wants to keep her baby girl. She tells her OBGYN she doesn't want to breastfeed because boobs will become saggy. I shit you not.
When did being pregnant at sixteen become okay? If I got pregnant now, much less at sixteen, that shit would not fly at my house, let me tell you. Besides being beaten, disowned, disembowled, humiliated, killed, strangled, starved, and burned, that baby would at the very least be aborted.
But before aborting anything, HOW how HOW does anyone manage to get pregnant in this day and age? I mean, really. Condoms; male and female, birth control, Plan B... I thought sex was idiotproof. Apparently not. I was horrendously mistaken.
Why is this something to be proud of? The kid who knocked you up can probably be tried for stautory rape, whether it was consensual or not.. and if you're lucky you're in high school. And now. Your life is over. But it's okay. MTV is going to legitimize teen pregnancy for you.
Good going, MTV. You were a pathetic excuse for a network to begin with but now I know if however many years into the future my daughter gets pregnant, it's because MTV made it cool.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Fast Forward Slow Motion
It's interesting the kinds of little encounters that take place in a big city, like New York, that make you realize how slow and fast paced it can simultaneously be.
I take a whole host of trains throughout the day. After a while I don't even notice the faces of the people who pass by me. They sort of blur together to create a mosaic of the city. But every now and then, there's a piece that sticks out.
If I recall correctly, and I may not, a few weeks ago I was waiting for a Main Street-bound 7 to get to my office. Both tracks were empty leaving from Times Square, which is odd, considering it's the first and last stop. As the horde of rushed commuters less than patiently waited for the next train, I was wandering around and this guy caught my eye. It was super early in the morning, before 8:30, and one of those sticky days where if you wait for a train too long, your face is going to melt onto the platform.
He looked just has harried as the rest of them. Pretentiously dressed, of course. Wearing brown shoes, albeit with a brown belt, but yech. Brown. Shudder. He was very exotic looking; dark and I daresay brooding. Meanwhile, I'm standing there in a skirt I could wear on Shabbas, hoping he won't notice me to so I can indulge my eyes from afar. I don't think he did, and even if he did, he didn't seem taken aback. I don't blame him. I know I'm nothing out of the ordinary. However, the plot thickens.
Monday, I was headed downtown after work. I could've taken more than one route to get where I was going, but it just so happened that I ended up in Grand Central. I was waiting for the 6 and I turned my head and lo and behold, I see PrententiouslyDressedExoticLookingMan. No brown accessories for him. His face didn't register right away. Apparently, neither did mine, since he did the most obvious double take I have ever seen anyone do. Not even in regards to me, but in general. It was. Way. Obvious.
And then he kept looking at me! I was like, "Psh, wuheva, I gots places to be, even though you're definitely several years older but still hot." Then, of course, as fate would have it, we ended up standing rightnextoeachother. He was by the door and I was holding onto that pole thing. I could feel his eyes just burning into me. When I had to move my eyes out of necessity from one spot to another and if they happened to cross his face, his eyes were on me. They were just glued. If our eyes met, I would smile and then he would smile.
I started to fiddle with my necklace, one that Harry and Joy picked out for me. It was perfect for those nervous I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-myself-fiddles. As the train lurched into the station we came close to each other. "That's a beautiful necklace," he said in his unplaceable deliciously foreign accent. I thanked him. Part of me hoped he would say something else. Anything. Give me a grunt or something.
It was the longest ride ever. Not in a bad way or a good way. It was just endless with all the tension swirling about. Are these the kinds of encounters that drive people to post on Craigslist's Missed Connections? Everything on that train was super slow motion. It seemed like everyone was taking really deep breaths, and making these fluid-like languorous movements. The cacophony that is New York and that is the 6 train was silenced, but as soon as I stepped one foot onto the ground at my stop, everything flooded back into my ears all at once. I was nearly overwhelmed by the speed of everything.
No, he said nothing more to me and as the train stopped at my station and I was about to leave, I gave him one last look and smiled. I said goodbye and somehow knew for certain that would be the last time I ever saw him.
I take a whole host of trains throughout the day. After a while I don't even notice the faces of the people who pass by me. They sort of blur together to create a mosaic of the city. But every now and then, there's a piece that sticks out.
If I recall correctly, and I may not, a few weeks ago I was waiting for a Main Street-bound 7 to get to my office. Both tracks were empty leaving from Times Square, which is odd, considering it's the first and last stop. As the horde of rushed commuters less than patiently waited for the next train, I was wandering around and this guy caught my eye. It was super early in the morning, before 8:30, and one of those sticky days where if you wait for a train too long, your face is going to melt onto the platform.
He looked just has harried as the rest of them. Pretentiously dressed, of course. Wearing brown shoes, albeit with a brown belt, but yech. Brown. Shudder. He was very exotic looking; dark and I daresay brooding. Meanwhile, I'm standing there in a skirt I could wear on Shabbas, hoping he won't notice me to so I can indulge my eyes from afar. I don't think he did, and even if he did, he didn't seem taken aback. I don't blame him. I know I'm nothing out of the ordinary. However, the plot thickens.
Monday, I was headed downtown after work. I could've taken more than one route to get where I was going, but it just so happened that I ended up in Grand Central. I was waiting for the 6 and I turned my head and lo and behold, I see PrententiouslyDressedExoticLookingMan. No brown accessories for him. His face didn't register right away. Apparently, neither did mine, since he did the most obvious double take I have ever seen anyone do. Not even in regards to me, but in general. It was. Way. Obvious.
And then he kept looking at me! I was like, "Psh, wuheva, I gots places to be, even though you're definitely several years older but still hot." Then, of course, as fate would have it, we ended up standing rightnextoeachother. He was by the door and I was holding onto that pole thing. I could feel his eyes just burning into me. When I had to move my eyes out of necessity from one spot to another and if they happened to cross his face, his eyes were on me. They were just glued. If our eyes met, I would smile and then he would smile.
I started to fiddle with my necklace, one that Harry and Joy picked out for me. It was perfect for those nervous I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-myself-fiddles. As the train lurched into the station we came close to each other. "That's a beautiful necklace," he said in his unplaceable deliciously foreign accent. I thanked him. Part of me hoped he would say something else. Anything. Give me a grunt or something.
It was the longest ride ever. Not in a bad way or a good way. It was just endless with all the tension swirling about. Are these the kinds of encounters that drive people to post on Craigslist's Missed Connections? Everything on that train was super slow motion. It seemed like everyone was taking really deep breaths, and making these fluid-like languorous movements. The cacophony that is New York and that is the 6 train was silenced, but as soon as I stepped one foot onto the ground at my stop, everything flooded back into my ears all at once. I was nearly overwhelmed by the speed of everything.
No, he said nothing more to me and as the train stopped at my station and I was about to leave, I gave him one last look and smiled. I said goodbye and somehow knew for certain that would be the last time I ever saw him.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Emancipation Proclamation
What does it take for a woman to consider herself or be considered as sexually emancipated?
I don't mean a slut, don't get me wrong. A sexually emancipated woman has a different swagger than a slut. A sexually-free woman knows exactly who she's doing, why she's doing, and what she's doing. She makes no secret about her appetite and does not fool herself into confusing sex for affection and love.
Why can't a woman enjoy no-strings attached sex as much as her male counterpart? That's right. She can. And she should. Sex should be equal opportunity, after all.
A woman crosses the line from sexually emancipated to slut when she loses sight of what she's doing. If she becomes a sperm bank and doesn't know any of the donors, she has a problem. If not. If she's careful, leave her be. Who's to say anything about a woman who takes charge of her sexuality and her libido? It's not 1620. It's 2009. We can do what we want. Everyone is entitled to their own prerogative.
No one deserves to receive judgment from another and no one has the right to judge another. I'd say only god can judge me, but as an atheist, no one can judge me or anyone else. People who whisper and roll their eyes, secretly shame others in their head. You do what you want and I do what I want. No judgment necessary. That's emancipation.
I don't mean a slut, don't get me wrong. A sexually emancipated woman has a different swagger than a slut. A sexually-free woman knows exactly who she's doing, why she's doing, and what she's doing. She makes no secret about her appetite and does not fool herself into confusing sex for affection and love.
Why can't a woman enjoy no-strings attached sex as much as her male counterpart? That's right. She can. And she should. Sex should be equal opportunity, after all.
A woman crosses the line from sexually emancipated to slut when she loses sight of what she's doing. If she becomes a sperm bank and doesn't know any of the donors, she has a problem. If not. If she's careful, leave her be. Who's to say anything about a woman who takes charge of her sexuality and her libido? It's not 1620. It's 2009. We can do what we want. Everyone is entitled to their own prerogative.
No one deserves to receive judgment from another and no one has the right to judge another. I'd say only god can judge me, but as an atheist, no one can judge me or anyone else. People who whisper and roll their eyes, secretly shame others in their head. You do what you want and I do what I want. No judgment necessary. That's emancipation.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Father's Day
In honor of Father's Day, here's a little something that's been peeving me for quite some time. That's putting it lightly.
Has anyone else seen these ads on the subway - the ones that encourage young, basically deadbeat fathers to stay involved in the life they created instead of just being a sperm donor?
If you haven't, you can see them here. And then proceed to blow your brains out. Or the brains of the nearest male of reproducing age. Or at least seriously contemplate eugenics.
This is fucking ridiculous. Are you for serious, New York City?
Even though I could be wrong about this, I'm pretty sure I'm lacking the maternal instinct. As in any of it. But if someone put me in charge of a baby or a toddler, I don't need to be told that I need to listen to the kid's needs and spend time with it. What's next? Hey, asshole, don't forget to feed the baby.
Are people really this lobotomized? Men really need to be told that they can't just bust a nut and bounce? Women, though, too are retarded, but that's a different story.
Doesn't this nullify the concept of Father's Day? We might as well call it be Sperm Donor Day. Or, Thanks for Fucking Me Without a Condom Day. Or, Surprise! It's Yours! Day. Hallmark can have a blast with this. Papyrus also, if you're feeling classy.
The fact that so many people who shouldn't procreate, do, is very upsetting. Children, like other things, should be a privilege, not a right. Just because you have the capacity to reproduce doesnt' mean you should take advantage of it. Especially if you need to be told to listen to your child and you know, be a semi-decent role model.
To all of the fathers who aren't a sack of shit or a sack of sperm and who don't need a subway ad to give you pointers on fatherhood - to all of them who care about their children and perform little, seemingly insignificant gestures (like my dad, love you) - Happy Father's Day. You are the ones who deserve to be recognized.
Has anyone else seen these ads on the subway - the ones that encourage young, basically deadbeat fathers to stay involved in the life they created instead of just being a sperm donor?
If you haven't, you can see them here. And then proceed to blow your brains out. Or the brains of the nearest male of reproducing age. Or at least seriously contemplate eugenics.
This is fucking ridiculous. Are you for serious, New York City?
Even though I could be wrong about this, I'm pretty sure I'm lacking the maternal instinct. As in any of it. But if someone put me in charge of a baby or a toddler, I don't need to be told that I need to listen to the kid's needs and spend time with it. What's next? Hey, asshole, don't forget to feed the baby.
Are people really this lobotomized? Men really need to be told that they can't just bust a nut and bounce? Women, though, too are retarded, but that's a different story.
Doesn't this nullify the concept of Father's Day? We might as well call it be Sperm Donor Day. Or, Thanks for Fucking Me Without a Condom Day. Or, Surprise! It's Yours! Day. Hallmark can have a blast with this. Papyrus also, if you're feeling classy.
The fact that so many people who shouldn't procreate, do, is very upsetting. Children, like other things, should be a privilege, not a right. Just because you have the capacity to reproduce doesnt' mean you should take advantage of it. Especially if you need to be told to listen to your child and you know, be a semi-decent role model.
To all of the fathers who aren't a sack of shit or a sack of sperm and who don't need a subway ad to give you pointers on fatherhood - to all of them who care about their children and perform little, seemingly insignificant gestures (like my dad, love you) - Happy Father's Day. You are the ones who deserve to be recognized.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Come Closer
How much can be learned about person in fleeting moments? Is it possible to learn someone's insecurities or fears by holding their hands? Or take notice of a stranger's personality trait by a single seemingly inconsequential action?
I don't have the answers to these questions, only experiences which made me wonder. By enjoying sitting in the front of the bus, does that mean I have control issues? The driver that one night seemed to think so. I found particularly uncalled for. It's hardly a control issue. If I asked to drive the bus, then, maybe he'd have some ground. Even though I never saw him again, his one senseless comment made me think. I don't play musical chairs on express buses because I like the adrenaline of stopping short and guessing just how close I can come to the windshield. I play musical chairs to get to the front because I get nervous I'll miss my stop (Stranger things have happened). Why do I even feel the need to justify myself? Can't sitting in front be my prerogative without some sort of underlying psychological condition driving it?
It is my prerogative. I don't have control issues. (I bet a bunch of you will beg to differ.) What's next? I like sitting near the window because I'm a closet escapist? (I so am.)
Sometimes I wonder how transparent I really am. I try to be opaque as possible, primarily among people I'm not entirely familiar with. I never really wear my heart on my sleeve and divulge secrets to as few people as my sanity will allow. That, though, depends on the magnitude of how reckless and stupid of an act I've committed, which, as of late, has been increasing.
Maybe it can be psychosomatic in a way; a self-fulfilling prophecy. The momentary description of myself that I received recently by someone who is not a stranger but not a close friend baffled me. I was literally speechless for a second and for once thanked the loud music for drowning out whatever quip I gargled out.
Just because someone says something unsettling doesn't make it true. Or does it become truth with extra analyzing? Will I eventually believe it if I consider it long enough?
I hope not. Not just for this wayward comment, but for any rogue statement. I should believe myself, no one else. Unfortunately, though, I don't think it always works that way.
I don't have the answers to these questions, only experiences which made me wonder. By enjoying sitting in the front of the bus, does that mean I have control issues? The driver that one night seemed to think so. I found particularly uncalled for. It's hardly a control issue. If I asked to drive the bus, then, maybe he'd have some ground. Even though I never saw him again, his one senseless comment made me think. I don't play musical chairs on express buses because I like the adrenaline of stopping short and guessing just how close I can come to the windshield. I play musical chairs to get to the front because I get nervous I'll miss my stop (Stranger things have happened). Why do I even feel the need to justify myself? Can't sitting in front be my prerogative without some sort of underlying psychological condition driving it?
It is my prerogative. I don't have control issues. (I bet a bunch of you will beg to differ.) What's next? I like sitting near the window because I'm a closet escapist? (I so am.)
Sometimes I wonder how transparent I really am. I try to be opaque as possible, primarily among people I'm not entirely familiar with. I never really wear my heart on my sleeve and divulge secrets to as few people as my sanity will allow. That, though, depends on the magnitude of how reckless and stupid of an act I've committed, which, as of late, has been increasing.
Maybe it can be psychosomatic in a way; a self-fulfilling prophecy. The momentary description of myself that I received recently by someone who is not a stranger but not a close friend baffled me. I was literally speechless for a second and for once thanked the loud music for drowning out whatever quip I gargled out.
Just because someone says something unsettling doesn't make it true. Or does it become truth with extra analyzing? Will I eventually believe it if I consider it long enough?
I hope not. Not just for this wayward comment, but for any rogue statement. I should believe myself, no one else. Unfortunately, though, I don't think it always works that way.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sometimes I Wish...
I could shut myself up.
I talk to myself more than I talk to anyone else. They say you're not crazy as long as you don't respond. And I don't. So through a rather vague technicality I can consider myself sane. While I beg to differ, I won't argue with conventional standards.
I'm my own worst critic when it comes to a lot of things. Actually, make that everything. Which is fine. Really. Except when you can't get away from yourself. I can never really shut myself up. If I'm planning on doing something potentially idiotic, the id part of me will be like, "YEAH! GO FOR IT!" while the poor superego has to internalize all of this. It wins most of the time, and prevents me from getting horrendously wasted or going streaking or committing mass homicides (see TheList).
But sometimes, when all of the warring factions in my head start going at each other, I really want them to shut. the. fuck. up. It also makes me wonder which part of my psyche I'm really thinking with. Is it raw, pleasure-principled id? I always thought of myself as pleasure-driven. Why do something I don't want to do? Makes perfect sense to me - I'm an Eros-driven kinda chick.
Even with that. I still want to be quiet. I can't even get away from myself when I'm sleeping. All of my dreams have that characteristically-Jenny sound. All of the things I fear, hate, love, desire - are all in there with equally-realistic and bothersome commentary. I can deal without your quips, Subconscious. Thanks.
My friend, TG, linked me to a book online that reads a lot like Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide. It must be the British humor that attracts me. I think that if I could spice up my inner monologue, I'd give it a British accent. Then, all my sub/semi conscious replies to myself can have that witty, dry, fabulous tone. Maybe then I'd like listening to myself more often.
I talk to myself more than I talk to anyone else. They say you're not crazy as long as you don't respond. And I don't. So through a rather vague technicality I can consider myself sane. While I beg to differ, I won't argue with conventional standards.
I'm my own worst critic when it comes to a lot of things. Actually, make that everything. Which is fine. Really. Except when you can't get away from yourself. I can never really shut myself up. If I'm planning on doing something potentially idiotic, the id part of me will be like, "YEAH! GO FOR IT!" while the poor superego has to internalize all of this. It wins most of the time, and prevents me from getting horrendously wasted or going streaking or committing mass homicides (see TheList).
But sometimes, when all of the warring factions in my head start going at each other, I really want them to shut. the. fuck. up. It also makes me wonder which part of my psyche I'm really thinking with. Is it raw, pleasure-principled id? I always thought of myself as pleasure-driven. Why do something I don't want to do? Makes perfect sense to me - I'm an Eros-driven kinda chick.
Even with that. I still want to be quiet. I can't even get away from myself when I'm sleeping. All of my dreams have that characteristically-Jenny sound. All of the things I fear, hate, love, desire - are all in there with equally-realistic and bothersome commentary. I can deal without your quips, Subconscious. Thanks.
My friend, TG, linked me to a book online that reads a lot like Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide. It must be the British humor that attracts me. I think that if I could spice up my inner monologue, I'd give it a British accent. Then, all my sub/semi conscious replies to myself can have that witty, dry, fabulous tone. Maybe then I'd like listening to myself more often.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Mirror Mirror
I wonder if everyone has a day at some point in their lives when they realize exactly what and how much they're really capable of. Not necessarily in a bad way or a good way, but an action or a thought that will make you go, holy shit, did I just do that? Did that succession of thoughts really run through my mind?
I'm not saying I did anything. Don't get any ideas now. But I suppose I've had those moments where I may have been possessed to do something and greatly impacted my sense of self without actually doing whatever it was I set out to do. Or tried to, anyway.
Complicated, I know. Aren't we all?
Maybe as we get older and have a better handle on ourselves do we take the most risks. I think it's only you're confident that you can be the most reckless. By that point you know what you're capable of, what you can handle - what better way to rebel against social or self-imposed constructs than taking self-shattering risks? Making potentially terrible decisions knowing perfectly well how absolutely ridiculous they are and yet reveling in every minute of it.
Sure, that seems a little stupid. But why not? It's taxing to be smart all the time. To be quick on the uptake. Whatever happened to slow on the downturn? Sometimes it's better be running with the crowd instead of ahead of the race.
Funny how things work out, isn't it? You can wake up in the morning with one sense of purpose, one sense of intent for that particular day and in the end, accomplish the exact opposite of what you intended. One step forward and two steps back happens so quickly in life. I'm not a believer in fate, destiny, or a higher power. I worship myself and the power and novelty of coincidence. What a coincidence can make us do crazy, crazy things.
To hell with it. Sometimes crazy is good.
I'm not saying I did anything. Don't get any ideas now. But I suppose I've had those moments where I may have been possessed to do something and greatly impacted my sense of self without actually doing whatever it was I set out to do. Or tried to, anyway.
Complicated, I know. Aren't we all?
Maybe as we get older and have a better handle on ourselves do we take the most risks. I think it's only you're confident that you can be the most reckless. By that point you know what you're capable of, what you can handle - what better way to rebel against social or self-imposed constructs than taking self-shattering risks? Making potentially terrible decisions knowing perfectly well how absolutely ridiculous they are and yet reveling in every minute of it.
Sure, that seems a little stupid. But why not? It's taxing to be smart all the time. To be quick on the uptake. Whatever happened to slow on the downturn? Sometimes it's better be running with the crowd instead of ahead of the race.
Funny how things work out, isn't it? You can wake up in the morning with one sense of purpose, one sense of intent for that particular day and in the end, accomplish the exact opposite of what you intended. One step forward and two steps back happens so quickly in life. I'm not a believer in fate, destiny, or a higher power. I worship myself and the power and novelty of coincidence. What a coincidence can make us do crazy, crazy things.
To hell with it. Sometimes crazy is good.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My First List
I'm a big fan of lists. They're concise, condensed, and to the point. They give just enough information without overloading you on the details. Here's one of mine:
People Who Need To Go:
1. People who stand and talk in front escalators, elevator doors, stairwells, doorways, and any other entry/exit way.
2. Not skinny people who feel possessed to wear skinny jeans.
3. People who risk their lives to squeeze into the elevator just as the doors are nearly closed.
4. Psuedointellectuals. You know who you are.
5. People who stand RIGHT in front of the subway doors as they're about to open. Because I can walk through you.
6. People who refuse to move with the pace of traffic. Especially in Midtown.
7. Heidi & Spencer.
8. Kim Kardashian.
9. Paris Hilton.
10. Lindsay Lohan.
11. Anyone who wears gladiator sandals. And even worse, gladiator birkenstocks. I'd like to put you in the Colosseum and hope a lion rips you apart.
12. People who use poor grammar.
13. People who refuse to use their turn signal.
14. People who take 3432479384793 quizzes on Facebook. No, I don't care what kind of shoe you are. You're a moron. Is there a quiz for that?
15. Neighbors who wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday or Sunday to start doing home improvements. Just wait until I get my hands on an electronic hammer and go at you at 7 am.
16. People who love to talk and give their two cents on topics they know absolutely nothing about.
Who's in your category of people who need to go? I'd love to add more to my list.
People Who Need To Go:
1. People who stand and talk in front escalators, elevator doors, stairwells, doorways, and any other entry/exit way.
2. Not skinny people who feel possessed to wear skinny jeans.
3. People who risk their lives to squeeze into the elevator just as the doors are nearly closed.
4. Psuedointellectuals. You know who you are.
5. People who stand RIGHT in front of the subway doors as they're about to open. Because I can walk through you.
6. People who refuse to move with the pace of traffic. Especially in Midtown.
7. Heidi & Spencer.
8. Kim Kardashian.
9. Paris Hilton.
10. Lindsay Lohan.
11. Anyone who wears gladiator sandals. And even worse, gladiator birkenstocks. I'd like to put you in the Colosseum and hope a lion rips you apart.
12. People who use poor grammar.
13. People who refuse to use their turn signal.
14. People who take 3432479384793 quizzes on Facebook. No, I don't care what kind of shoe you are. You're a moron. Is there a quiz for that?
15. Neighbors who wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday or Sunday to start doing home improvements. Just wait until I get my hands on an electronic hammer and go at you at 7 am.
16. People who love to talk and give their two cents on topics they know absolutely nothing about.
Who's in your category of people who need to go? I'd love to add more to my list.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Spunky Monkey
It's always an interesting reawakening when it feels like the blindfold has been removed. I'm never entirely sure what the point is in these situations where the darkness disappears and there's rejuventation running through the veins.
Mine happened today. I don't know what triggered it and I don't particularly care. All I know is that I feel fantastic. This is due in part to a lot of people who have heard a lot of my incessant shit over the past few days. But it's all over now. In fact, in retrospect, I'm kind of like, what was the fuss all about? That? Pft. Poppycock.
Now, I'm feeling spunky and mischievous. Back to my old self.
It's good to have me back.
Mine happened today. I don't know what triggered it and I don't particularly care. All I know is that I feel fantastic. This is due in part to a lot of people who have heard a lot of my incessant shit over the past few days. But it's all over now. In fact, in retrospect, I'm kind of like, what was the fuss all about? That? Pft. Poppycock.
Now, I'm feeling spunky and mischievous. Back to my old self.
It's good to have me back.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Know Thyself
And as the sun made it's way to set, I chased it through the park; migrating towards different benches to gather some light before it disappeared completely behind the buildings. Only a little more sunlight to know I wasn't completely out of its reach, not outcast to the cold depths where the miserable lurk. To know that one day, maybe sooner than later, I would be warm again, even through the coldest days.
Stupid metaphor, I know. But it felt good, I guess, considering I had no energy for the majority of the day. I shuffled along. I guess it's back to shuffling now.
I'm lost. Trying to find myself - somewhere between where I last was and where I got lost.
Later on that night, as I made my way through the house, I made sure it was still. There's no need to cry in front of an audience.
Stupid metaphor, I know. But it felt good, I guess, considering I had no energy for the majority of the day. I shuffled along. I guess it's back to shuffling now.
I'm lost. Trying to find myself - somewhere between where I last was and where I got lost.
Later on that night, as I made my way through the house, I made sure it was still. There's no need to cry in front of an audience.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Hmmm..
Why is there always a haunting or a demonic possession in a state like Connecticut, or Tennessee? Even Long Island has seen it's share of psycho happenings with the Amityville Horror. How come there's never a crazy supernatural experience in a place like Arizona?
Maybe it's the way the eastern states are typecast?
Maybe it's the way the eastern states are typecast?
Friday, March 13, 2009
What's Worse...
...than insomnia? Trying to find a way to alleviate the misery of being awake at 2:30 in the morning and having to wake up at 6.
For the past few weeks, on and off, I've been having bouts of acute insomnia. It's stupid hard for me to fall asleep and then remain that way. So I foolishly look for things to do while the rest of my house is silent and my dog snores through the walls.
Last night was one such night. I thought I would watch '27 Dresses' thinking it would serve as a sleep aid, and I'd fall right to sleep before feeling like I should blow my brains out from nausea typically associated with chick flicks and Katherine Heigl's snaggletoothiness. Gross.
Alas, sleep never came. I watched the. entire. thing.
I think I would have felt less worse if I just stared at the ceiling. I understand that some movies are meant to be an escape from the grim reality we all trek through on a daily basis. On the other hand, there are shockingly realistic movies where the characters don't fall into one extreme over another. '27 Dresses' was not one such example.
Nothing against RomComs. Well, wait. For those who know me, I have everything against RomComs, and this one is no different. Seeing as how this movie is predictable from its 4-line synopsis, I wonder what they, as in the producers, are trying to peddle to us, as in the ambushed viewership who by now should know a lot better than to see this shit.
This movie had the obligatory Problem, and the female characters: RudeYetDependableBFF, TheBitch, IdealisticMainCharacter - whole nine yards. But for some reason, females watching this movie can look at any of the trite characters and go, "I can relate to her. I believe in This and That, and we think the same," blah blah blah. It's almost sad that girls are so easily marketable. Recycle the same character with the same ideals and BOOM, new Chick Flick. But here's what we never see. We never see a guy talking to his boys, pointing to the main male lead and saying, "I'm so like him. I'm sensitive, and sexy, and considerate, and successful, and all of these other traits. I'm the PerfectMan."
There's no point in making a movie that's half-realistic and half-wtf. It's either all fantasy or something plausible enough that your mind can wrap around it. Who wants to escape into a two-hour jaunt where the girl is realistically pathetic and the sort of guy being portrayed doesn't exist? At least to that extent. I just want my movies really real or fantastical enough that it could only be related to something in my dreams. And something that won't couple my insomnia with bouts of nauseated depression.
For the past few weeks, on and off, I've been having bouts of acute insomnia. It's stupid hard for me to fall asleep and then remain that way. So I foolishly look for things to do while the rest of my house is silent and my dog snores through the walls.
Last night was one such night. I thought I would watch '27 Dresses' thinking it would serve as a sleep aid, and I'd fall right to sleep before feeling like I should blow my brains out from nausea typically associated with chick flicks and Katherine Heigl's snaggletoothiness. Gross.
Alas, sleep never came. I watched the. entire. thing.
I think I would have felt less worse if I just stared at the ceiling. I understand that some movies are meant to be an escape from the grim reality we all trek through on a daily basis. On the other hand, there are shockingly realistic movies where the characters don't fall into one extreme over another. '27 Dresses' was not one such example.
Nothing against RomComs. Well, wait. For those who know me, I have everything against RomComs, and this one is no different. Seeing as how this movie is predictable from its 4-line synopsis, I wonder what they, as in the producers, are trying to peddle to us, as in the ambushed viewership who by now should know a lot better than to see this shit.
This movie had the obligatory Problem, and the female characters: RudeYetDependableBFF, TheBitch, IdealisticMainCharacter - whole nine yards. But for some reason, females watching this movie can look at any of the trite characters and go, "I can relate to her. I believe in This and That, and we think the same," blah blah blah. It's almost sad that girls are so easily marketable. Recycle the same character with the same ideals and BOOM, new Chick Flick. But here's what we never see. We never see a guy talking to his boys, pointing to the main male lead and saying, "I'm so like him. I'm sensitive, and sexy, and considerate, and successful, and all of these other traits. I'm the PerfectMan."
There's no point in making a movie that's half-realistic and half-wtf. It's either all fantasy or something plausible enough that your mind can wrap around it. Who wants to escape into a two-hour jaunt where the girl is realistically pathetic and the sort of guy being portrayed doesn't exist? At least to that extent. I just want my movies really real or fantastical enough that it could only be related to something in my dreams. And something that won't couple my insomnia with bouts of nauseated depression.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
I Really Don't Like...
...standing in lines. Maybe it's because I consider myself awkward, but the whole experience is just horrendously weird for me. This includes standing on line for the bus, for food, or on a line about to pay for shit I can't afford. The whole experience just bothers me and makes me neurotic. I think, Am I shifting my weight over and over? Are all of these people looking at me? What are they thinking?
And I know they're probably not thinking anything, except maybe for me to stop fidgeting. But I don't know what to do with myself. Do I cross my arms or leave them at my sides? Are these people judging my choice of toppings for my sandwich or my salad? Are they making jibes at me for eating salami? These uncomfortable thoughts could all be avoided if I didn't have to wait on line. I especially hate waiting on line when I'm the only one standing and everyone else is sitting. The place where I get my salad on Thursdays and Fridays has a massive seating area, and while I'm waiting for the salad maker dude to throw tomatoes into the bowl, I can imagine pairs of eyes burning into the back of me, where I can't see them. Or deflect them. Or make them go away. Look at someone else! I want to scream. Maybe they're really not looking at me, but I can never be certain. Just thinking about standing in that salad line again today is making me shudder.
You know what else makes me nervous? Paying for shit. I feel rushed by the people behind me when I'm fumbling with my change. I like to put my money in bill-order facing a certain way, but nooo, unless I'm the only one on that line, I don't have that opportunity, to gingerly put the remnants of my money away.
Does this make anyone else nervous, or is it just me? I have my money on it being just me.
Good heavens, am I really this neurotic? Yes, yes I am.
And I know they're probably not thinking anything, except maybe for me to stop fidgeting. But I don't know what to do with myself. Do I cross my arms or leave them at my sides? Are these people judging my choice of toppings for my sandwich or my salad? Are they making jibes at me for eating salami? These uncomfortable thoughts could all be avoided if I didn't have to wait on line. I especially hate waiting on line when I'm the only one standing and everyone else is sitting. The place where I get my salad on Thursdays and Fridays has a massive seating area, and while I'm waiting for the salad maker dude to throw tomatoes into the bowl, I can imagine pairs of eyes burning into the back of me, where I can't see them. Or deflect them. Or make them go away. Look at someone else! I want to scream. Maybe they're really not looking at me, but I can never be certain. Just thinking about standing in that salad line again today is making me shudder.
You know what else makes me nervous? Paying for shit. I feel rushed by the people behind me when I'm fumbling with my change. I like to put my money in bill-order facing a certain way, but nooo, unless I'm the only one on that line, I don't have that opportunity, to gingerly put the remnants of my money away.
Does this make anyone else nervous, or is it just me? I have my money on it being just me.
Good heavens, am I really this neurotic? Yes, yes I am.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
People Who Really Piss Me Off
As most of you will come to know, lots of people piss me off. These are my first order of business.
All of you pseudo-intellectuals should suck it. Seriously.
There is not one single redemptive quality in your miserable being. Not one.
Personally, I consider myself above average when it comes to ranking my intelligence. I have the occasional insightful remark or argument, possibly more than occasionally when I'm having a good month. So I consider myself above average, but not so above average that I can give legitimately smart fucking people a run for their money. That being said, I, surprisingly, know when to keep my mouth shut. Hint: When I don't know anything.
I'm not an expert on Plato or St. Augustine or Thomas Hobbes or Freud. But this one bitch in my seminar thinks she is. And she thinks that if she isn't, she will be, simply by the power of forceful fucking suggestion.
Every class meeting after every single thing we read, she always reiterates: "I don't understand the point of this," or "I don't agree with this." Here's a penny for your thoughts and move on. But noooooo. She then begins a discussion with one of the most intelligent, well-educated professors I've ever encountered. He might tell her, over and over, that her point, while well-articulated, makes no fucking sense. And it doesn't. Again, I'm no expert, but I know damn well there are no Platonic ideals in Leviathan. Nope, sorry. No way, no how.
"But, professor, what do you mean Hobbes believes there's no ultimate good. Does he actually say that?" *Scoffs*
"He does. Page 4."
And then I feel the shock of victory!
But that doesn't deter even this spirit of pseudo-intellectualism. She goes on and on, and then argues with the entire class about whether justice is a social construct. Hint: IT IS. She even changes the tone of her voice when she prepares to speak, like a different tone can blanket obvious disregard for the text, and the people sitting there, listening to every.single.word.
Granted, I'm biased. This girl drove me fucking nuts since Day 1, with her brown-nosing questions, and long-ass baseless arguments. She may very well be an intelligent girl, except she can't pronounce simple words, like naivete, and threatens other people when she's corrected. Aside from all of her flaws, though, she very well may be an intelligent girl, but coming off as ignorant, stubborn, and plain fucking stupid doesn't do well to convey that.
These types of people drive me up the wall. They're not fooling anyone, but sadly, they're beginning to outnumber the rightfully smart, intellectual people.
As my friend sitting next to me said, "This is why I don't open my mouth to talk about things I don't know anything about." Now that's a smart girl.
All of you pseudo-intellectuals should suck it. Seriously.
There is not one single redemptive quality in your miserable being. Not one.
Personally, I consider myself above average when it comes to ranking my intelligence. I have the occasional insightful remark or argument, possibly more than occasionally when I'm having a good month. So I consider myself above average, but not so above average that I can give legitimately smart fucking people a run for their money. That being said, I, surprisingly, know when to keep my mouth shut. Hint: When I don't know anything.
I'm not an expert on Plato or St. Augustine or Thomas Hobbes or Freud. But this one bitch in my seminar thinks she is. And she thinks that if she isn't, she will be, simply by the power of forceful fucking suggestion.
Every class meeting after every single thing we read, she always reiterates: "I don't understand the point of this," or "I don't agree with this." Here's a penny for your thoughts and move on. But noooooo. She then begins a discussion with one of the most intelligent, well-educated professors I've ever encountered. He might tell her, over and over, that her point, while well-articulated, makes no fucking sense. And it doesn't. Again, I'm no expert, but I know damn well there are no Platonic ideals in Leviathan. Nope, sorry. No way, no how.
"But, professor, what do you mean Hobbes believes there's no ultimate good. Does he actually say that?" *Scoffs*
"He does. Page 4."
And then I feel the shock of victory!
But that doesn't deter even this spirit of pseudo-intellectualism. She goes on and on, and then argues with the entire class about whether justice is a social construct. Hint: IT IS. She even changes the tone of her voice when she prepares to speak, like a different tone can blanket obvious disregard for the text, and the people sitting there, listening to every.single.word.
Granted, I'm biased. This girl drove me fucking nuts since Day 1, with her brown-nosing questions, and long-ass baseless arguments. She may very well be an intelligent girl, except she can't pronounce simple words, like naivete, and threatens other people when she's corrected. Aside from all of her flaws, though, she very well may be an intelligent girl, but coming off as ignorant, stubborn, and plain fucking stupid doesn't do well to convey that.
These types of people drive me up the wall. They're not fooling anyone, but sadly, they're beginning to outnumber the rightfully smart, intellectual people.
As my friend sitting next to me said, "This is why I don't open my mouth to talk about things I don't know anything about." Now that's a smart girl.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sliding Doors
Can it be harmful to wonder?
The concept is amazing. At least I think so. This has nothing to do with the movie, which I haven't seen but am familiar with the premise.
It brings out such intricate scenarios that play out in my mind. What if I hadn't been there at that time and what really happened wouldn't have? It's the butterfly effect that captures me. If I hadn't ended up under that car by not being at that very intersection on that very day, how would have life been different up until this point? I made a lot of decisions following that accident, some rash and thoughtless - spawned out of passion and anger. It boggles my mind to even wonder how my life would be different.
It's pointless, I know, thinking about the possible outcomes had one little thing been different. Not about being in the wrong place at the wrong time - but anything. Even the simple changing of words - a "yes" to a "no", "I will" to "I won't".
It's astounding how one tiny difference can change an entire course. Taking a different train, deciding to go somewhere at one time versus another.
Is there anything you, dear readers, wonder about? Wonder what could have been or could not have been due to a certain circumstance or choice? Maybe it was something as minute as something you said, to someone, at some point in time.
It's a shame we don't have the ability of true foresight. Not the simple extrapolation of events, as in not studying for an exam can result in a failing grade, but something more complicated and involved, such as, if I take this job over that one, or decide to go overseas, how will things really be different? If Chris Brown knew of the shitstorm, personal and professional, that would arise if he hit Rihanna, would he still have done it? Or is losing total control of one's bearings exempt from the power of foresight?
I always was a bit of a day dreamer.
The concept is amazing. At least I think so. This has nothing to do with the movie, which I haven't seen but am familiar with the premise.
It brings out such intricate scenarios that play out in my mind. What if I hadn't been there at that time and what really happened wouldn't have? It's the butterfly effect that captures me. If I hadn't ended up under that car by not being at that very intersection on that very day, how would have life been different up until this point? I made a lot of decisions following that accident, some rash and thoughtless - spawned out of passion and anger. It boggles my mind to even wonder how my life would be different.
It's pointless, I know, thinking about the possible outcomes had one little thing been different. Not about being in the wrong place at the wrong time - but anything. Even the simple changing of words - a "yes" to a "no", "I will" to "I won't".
It's astounding how one tiny difference can change an entire course. Taking a different train, deciding to go somewhere at one time versus another.
Is there anything you, dear readers, wonder about? Wonder what could have been or could not have been due to a certain circumstance or choice? Maybe it was something as minute as something you said, to someone, at some point in time.
It's a shame we don't have the ability of true foresight. Not the simple extrapolation of events, as in not studying for an exam can result in a failing grade, but something more complicated and involved, such as, if I take this job over that one, or decide to go overseas, how will things really be different? If Chris Brown knew of the shitstorm, personal and professional, that would arise if he hit Rihanna, would he still have done it? Or is losing total control of one's bearings exempt from the power of foresight?
I always was a bit of a day dreamer.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
I Can't Be the Only One Thinking This
Anybody, anybody at all think maybe Rihanna asked for it?
Just sayin'.
Just sayin'.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
In Case You're An Ignoramus
There has recently been a huge resurgence in Israel's popularity through myriad born-again Jews who like a wayward flock, once were lost but now are found, even though not eating pork and having a festive dinner Friday night still makes you a shitty Jew. They want to pander their new found faith, love and support for their "homeland" (albeit having been born anywhere else) through all available medias, the most offensive one being Facebook.
As a result of the newest version of Israel: At War with Everyone Again Part 57, there is a constant barrage from people on Facebook who want to tell me how many rockets Hamas has fired and where they hit via their status and some ridiculous QassamCount application (Now available on Twitter!) For those of you who are unaware, QassamCount is a website that can not only tell you how many rockets filled with schranpel were fired into Israel today with 3 live updates, but can also give you a summary of the rocket fire and mortar shelling that occurred in 2008.
When I am possessed to read someone's status update, I don't expect it to tell me that 8 rockets were fired within range of Tel-Aviv. If I wanted to read that, I can read the news. And these statuses aren't playing upon my loyalist Jew sympathies. Hamas fired another rocket, did they? I'm in New York. Quick! What should I do?! Fire back?
This is not to say I don't support Israel because I do - as in just vocally. I support Israel, but I'm not going to get all headstrong about it. However, I find that putting how many rockets hit Be'er Sheva in an attempt to raise awareness almost insults the level of importance for Israel's plight for peace. If you really love Israel and are so super proud to be a Jew, give some money to Israel's version of the Red Cross, to help those who are really affected by the rockets, since people who read it on Facebook can probably care less.
The QassamCount application tells us that by donating our status, we're raising awareness about rockets hitting Israel. Thanks to you, QassamCount, I'm aware. Now how's that bid of mine doing on eBay.
As a result of the newest version of Israel: At War with Everyone Again Part 57, there is a constant barrage from people on Facebook who want to tell me how many rockets Hamas has fired and where they hit via their status and some ridiculous QassamCount application (Now available on Twitter!) For those of you who are unaware, QassamCount is a website that can not only tell you how many rockets filled with schranpel were fired into Israel today with 3 live updates, but can also give you a summary of the rocket fire and mortar shelling that occurred in 2008.
When I am possessed to read someone's status update, I don't expect it to tell me that 8 rockets were fired within range of Tel-Aviv. If I wanted to read that, I can read the news. And these statuses aren't playing upon my loyalist Jew sympathies. Hamas fired another rocket, did they? I'm in New York. Quick! What should I do?! Fire back?
This is not to say I don't support Israel because I do - as in just vocally. I support Israel, but I'm not going to get all headstrong about it. However, I find that putting how many rockets hit Be'er Sheva in an attempt to raise awareness almost insults the level of importance for Israel's plight for peace. If you really love Israel and are so super proud to be a Jew, give some money to Israel's version of the Red Cross, to help those who are really affected by the rockets, since people who read it on Facebook can probably care less.
The QassamCount application tells us that by donating our status, we're raising awareness about rockets hitting Israel. Thanks to you, QassamCount, I'm aware. Now how's that bid of mine doing on eBay.
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