A new post for the new year, as my blog struggles to survive another 365 days of my neglect and general apathy.

Remember in my last post when I talked about going skiing for New Year's eve? and not ziplining? well that, mofos, is what you call foreshadowing.

I think. I'm a little rusty on my literary tropes now that I spend the majority of my days feeling my eyeballs slowly dry out in a cubicle. But here's the whole sordid story, which I shall call "Carolyn goes Skiing and Not Ziplining which Very Nearly Resulted in her Death but through Perseverance she was able to Survive and even got a Burrito out of it at the End, although she did Lose her Lips and the Use of her Major Muscles for the Next Few Days."

Here's how it starts.

December 30th, 2010

8:00 AM: I have a cold. This actually started several days ago, but I don't want to recount my entire winter vacation.

7:00 PM: Isabel, Mike and I head over to Clayton's to hang out with him. We're actually there to pick him up for the snow trip, but we figured we might as well get some fun out of it so we went early enough to fit in a few games of Black Ops.

7:30 PM: We play those missions or whatever they're called. It's like a free-for-all but with special conditions. Like you only get one bullet or your gun changes every 45 seconds. I forget what they're called but they're really fun except for the part where I practically get a blister on my thumb from hitting x to respawn. Because I'm not so good at the video games. Mike is, though, and he has so much fun he says, "can we just do this instead of going to Big Bear?" Which is more foreshadowing.

7:45 PM: Isabel gets bored of not watching us play video games and borrows Clayton's computer to look at a naked picture of T.I.

7:50 PM: Isabel reports that T.I. "looks awkward" naked.

8:00 PM: We head to Brian's house because it's closer to Big Bear and we won't have to wake up as early the next morning. By which I mean 5:30 instead of 4:30. Yeah, AM. It was that kind of vacation.

9:00 PM: We get to Brian's house and his mom makes us red bean soup which is usually delicious but I can't taste anything because of the phlegm. From my cold, not the soup.

10:00 PM: Marc arrives and the whole party is there except for Rohit, who missed out on a night of all four boys sleeping on the floor of Brian's "bonus room," and, as Mike put it the next morning, "performing a symphony of snores."

New Year's Eve

6:00 AM: I wake up and put on my silly bands.

9:00 AM: We get to Big Bear and make our first stop at the ski rental place. At this point I was naively unaware that I was strapping myself into a torture device. Also I have to pee.

10:00 AM: We get to "Snow Summit" (a misnomer -- it should've been called "The Icy Gates of Hell") and luckily they have a bathroom or my day would have been even worse.

10:30 AM: Brian is the most experienced skier and tries to teach the rest of us on that little flat part of the slope where all the little kids are learning to snowboard. Everyone slides around uncontrollably except Marc, who is athletically inclined, and me and Isabel, who practice standing very still.

12:00 PM: We head for the actual slopes. The ones where you have to take the lift. Going into this day, I thought the lift would be my mortal enemy. When I was small it seemed really big and fast, and getting on and off was a tricky matter full of planning and coordination, neither of which little Carolyn was good at. My most ingrained memory of skiing in my youth is tripping off the lift at the dismount area, getting knocked on the head, and the operator stopping the whole thing while a dozen strangers watched me struggle to get up. Also I was wearing a snow jumpsuit. It was red.

12:20 PM: We get on the lift, which isn't nearly as fast or big as I remember. It was actually quite enjoyable. I didn't know at this point, but it would turn out to the best part of skiing because it doesn't involve moving or falling. Although, toward the end, falling off the lift would've been a sweet release.

12:30 PM: We go down the bunny slope. I discover there seems to be a problem with the brakes on my skis. Despite Brian's very helpful advice to "Wedge. Wedge, Carolyn. You're not wedging. Pretend your skis are pizzas," I find that the most reliable way of stopping is to fall onto the snow and then spread my body out to cover as much surface area as possible so that there is more dragging force and I can come to a quicker halt.

1:30 PM: We find Clayton, who has escaped to the baby bunny slopes. The ones that have the moving flat escalator thing instead of a ski lift. I am able to get down this without falling, but it is tiring because for every thirty second run down the slope there is a three minute wait on the moving escalator, and standing has become a chore of epic proportions.

2:00 PM: I can't feel my face. Or my fingers. I didn't eat lunch because a $5 hot dog would have been wasted on my frozen taste buds. I have approximately 30 bruises and still haven't learned how to stop. I'm pretty sure I was born without the muscles one uses in "wedging." On the plus side, I haven't mowed over any children or fallen off the side of the mountain. Incidentally, two of my biggest skiing fears.

3:30 PM: We get in line to go to the summit. The sign says the route is "the easiest." It literally says that on the sign. This little bit of false advertising would be my downfall. Also literally.

4:00 PM: We get to the top of the mountain. And I mean the top. We soared over all the other skiers and trees and small animals and landed at the peak. It was almost like ziplining except at the end you get abandoned and have to find your own way down.

4:00 PM -- 5:30 PM: For the next one and a half hours (yes, one and a half hours) I followed this time tested routine:

1. Ski fifty yards.

2. Start going too fast.

3. Freak out.

4. Fall down.

5. Stare at the sky, wishing I were dead, as small children zip past me on their skis.

6. Brian comes to a stop about six feet from me. While looking around pretending he doesn't know who I am, he says "come on, get up, we're almost there."

7. I continue to stare at the sky. "Go on without me," I say, "I can't make it."

8. "Well you have to," Brian says, "there's no other way down."

9. A concerned passerby stops and looks at me. "Is she okay?" he asks Brian, who reluctantly acknowledges my existence and says, "Yeah. Well, I think so."

10. I laboriously get up and look down the slope with trepidation. Brian and I stand there for up to five minutes before I can urge my body to once again hurtle itself down the side of a mountain.

Once in a while I would switch things up on steps #2-4 by falling on accident.

Later on, when I finally got off the slope and was feeling mildly human again, Marc told me that after he got down the mountain in "three minutes" (that SON OF A BITCH) he stood there "in the cold" waiting for me and Brian to come down. When we finally came within view, this is how he described it:

"Yeah, you would ski for like a few seconds, and then fall down. And Brian would ski over to you. And then you'd get up and you two would just stand there for like five minutes. What were you doing? During the one and a half hours I was waiting, I saw a couple of snowmobiles go by and I thought they were for you."

Needless to say I detest him.

7:00 PM: In a stroke of New Year's luck, across the street from our motel was a DELICIOUS Mexican food place that the nice owners kept open for us. I had a ground beef burrito.

8:00 PM: I call first shower and discover that the entire back half of my body is bruised. I have trouble stepping over the two inch ledge thing into the shower.

9:00 PM: We watch "Minute to Win It" Christmas edition. There is a task where the guy has to put a gingerbread man on his forehead and move it to his mouth using only his face muscles.

11:30 PM: Everyone wants to sleep but it seems like a waste to stay awake this long and not wait 'til midnight.

12:00 AM: We watch the ball drop for the third time that night and Isabel immediately turns off the light. We all knock out.

3:00 AM: Someone is snoring.

New Year's Day

9:00 AM: My lips are so chapped. Also I cannot walk.

Social Media is Scary, but Not as Scary as Me Being an Awesome Spy

I am hesitant to say anything regarding my job because it is my sole means of support now that I am no longer a student with allowance. And did you know, in the real world you have to pay rent? And this thing called utilities? And that, when the living room light gets left on all night, the latter increases? Yes, it is all quite overwhelming and confusing but I have been putting on a brave front and writing checks, which I find is easier to do if you are blissfully unaware of the contents of your bank account. I assume I have enough to cover this month's rent, let's just leave it at that. Like that old saying goes, "Assuming makes a .. happy person ...out of me." Or something like that.

Anyway, let me remain purposefully vague because I am keeping in mind one incident in which my sister's roommate went for an interview, came back discouraged, vented about said interview in her blog, and received a call not thirty minutes after it was posted -- from her interviewer. Asking her to take down the post. Because he had seen it through Google Alerts. Yes, the world is a scary place.

So for all our sakes -- including that of my landlord, with whom I'm not well acquainted but who I am fairly certain does not have a secret fondness for bounced checks -- let's just say that I am a spy by profession. And occasional blogger by night (but mostly couch potato).

One day, my daily routine of getting to the spy office by 8 AM was disrupted because -- TADA! -- I had something else on my plate that morning. Not literally, spies don't have time for breakfast. What I had to do was attend what everyone else there referred to as a "social media workshop" but which I referred to (mostly in my head) as a "super secret spy mission". The conference/mission was amusing for two reasons: I was experiencing a weekday morning outside of a cubicle for the first time in over two months (if spies got depressed this would be a good point to do so), and THE WHOLE POINT OF THE CONFERENCE WAS TO LEARN ABOUT FACEBOOK.

But first I had to get there. The directions were vague, giving only the address to what turned out to be a huge cathedral in downtown Los Angeles. Parking in the underground garage (for which the fee was $18, and quite beyond a spy's salary, so I was relieved to find later that it was validated for the conference), I made my way up the stairs and into the first building I saw. Which was the cathedral, of course. I don't know what I thought, that the workshop would be held inside the cathedral? I suppose we could have sat in the pews, and the presenter could have spoken at the ... alter? Podium? I'm not familiar with religious terminology. But this sacrilegious scene was not to be. When I made my way into the cathedral, I saw only a few bowed heads, devout worshippers in prayer for who clearly did not have profile pictures or friend requests on the mind. I tiptoed back toward the door, afraid that the echoing sound of my work heels against the stone floor would disrupt some sort of religious epiphany. It wasn't until I saw a man frowning at me that I realized mincing along with my body curled into the shape of a question mark wasn't the most inconspicuous thing I could have done in that particular situation. Luckily by then I was near the door, so I made my escape.

Soon after I found the actual conference being held in a modern conference room with no pews or praying people whatsoever. It was a lucky thing it was located next to the cafe, ensuring that sooner or later I would come across it, whether in search of the conference itself or just a nice frappuccino.

So I was finally at my social media conference. For those of you who are like I was a few months ago, social media is roughly the concept of marketing through social platforms on the internet. Or something like that. I didn't take notes on that part because they had FREE DANISHES. Spies have priorities, you know.

Anyway, it turned out I didn't really have to pay attention to much of it at all, because most of the conference was spent explaining things like Facebook fan pages and how to effectively use Twitter. Considering my ..spy company.. blocks the use of any website it deems unproductive (goodbye Bejeweled, cracked.com, personal blogs, or anything that may bring a tiny glimmer of light and hope into the dark abyss that is cubicle life), I settled in to enjoy the rest of the conference with a nice blueberry scone.

That is, until we got to the Powerpoint presentation. An extremely nice and dapper older gentleman was presenting from a local nonprofit, explaining how they'd used Facebook to spread the word about their fundraisers. He showed us screenshots of their page, which I guess was taken from his computer when he was logged into the account, because he suddenly cleared his throat. The audience followed his eyes to where he was looking at the advertisements on the sidebar. That's when I noticed for the first time that the ads were extremely... specific. GAY MOTORCYCLE CLUB, the first one said. The second one: GAY AUTOMOBILE CONVENTION. Okay, I didn't even know they had those. We went onto the next page. GAY BOWLING CLUB. "You know," the presenter said, very graciously, "I don't know how they find out this stuff."

All in all it was quite a successful morning.

Birthday Blog

Okay -- I wrote this many many months ago, in anticipation for the one year anniversary of my blog (this was before I abandoned it for half a year.. but any excuse to celebrate!) which explains the fervent devotion in my tone even though this is only my third post in the last six months. It also explains the nicknames, which I don't use anymore (I just got tired of making them up), and the friend I'm talking to, with whom I'm no longer in touch, much less partaking in drunken arguments with. But everyone deserves a birthday, no matter how belated, so --

Happy birthday, blog! I love you. One year ago today we started on this long, windy (as in twisty, not gusty) journey into my self-indulgent pratterings and here we are, 365 days later, going strong.

Oh? What's that, you say? You want to know how much I love you?

Fine, here is a birthday anecdote.

Once upon a time, mere weeks after your creation, I was drunk and having an argument with Tando (also drunk). As often is the case with drunken happenings, I can't quite recall the details. I do know that it was late and we were outside and there was yelling (possibly on my part) and throwing of beer cans that weren't quite empty (also on my part, maybe) and a lot of using swear words because they make me laugh (it's starting to sound like I was the only one having an argument here). In any case, after a lot of me stomping dramatically around in an intimidating fashion and defying Tando to bring up even one example that would support his cause, he cited you. And that totally shut me up. Because I had no idea he knew about your existence, let alone read you.
"W-what?" I stuttered. "You read my blog?"
"Yes?" he replied, looking confused, probably because he suddenly wasn't having to dodge flying aluminum or urging me to be quiet before the police come.
"How do you know about my blog?" I pursued.
"It's on your facebook," he said, confusion not alleviated in the least.
"Well, I didn't think people would actually notice it--"
"Then why would you put it on there in the first place--"

This was not what the argument was about.
"Anyway," he said, trying to steer us back on track, "on your blog you specifically say that --"
I put a hand on his arm and looked at him so seriously he interrupted himself. "What?"
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," he said, exasperated, "but--"

And that's about as much as I remember because I tuned him out after that and started thinking about you, and how great you are because you have always been there for me, through thick and thin and drunken, irrational posts and sober, irrational posts, and just everything. And I love you. Happy birthday, blog.

It's a Work in Progress, Okay?

I hate charming boys. Shoot. I take that back. I'm doing this new thing where I'm very peaceable and calm and benevolent and loving of the entire world which is difficult for me because it involves not stomping feet or stabbing anyone (no link to that, I googled "stab" in my blog and my browser almost overloaded and crashed). This little resolution came about in two ways:

1. A little while ago I had a really bad couple of days. It wasn't quite rock bottom but it was close. Like if rock bottom were a balding middle aged woman who is realizing that the man she married twenty years ago likes reenacting historical scenes with stuffed animals more than he likes her, then I was that woman's illiterate country cousin. But as with all things in life (yeah? that sounded pretty zen, right?), the crappiness challenge eventually passed and I realized that I am just a spoiled brat who pouts or buys shoes every time she gets her feelings hurt. And I vowed that if I had to be a spoiled brat, I would be one who doesn't throw tantrums too often because feet broken from excessive stomping will not wear new shoes well I am a mature and sensible woman who is at peace with herself and with the world.

2. I spent some quality time with a friend of mine who is the most tranquil, sunniest person I know. I've never heard her say anything bad about anyone, and even though she's younger than me she makes me want to be like her. Recently something really great has happened to her, and I'm pretty sure there is no one more deserving. She's head over heels in love and it's insane; I've never seen anything like it. A lot of my friends (reference all three of my roommates) are in relationships, but I've never seen anyone glow the way Ash did when she told me about her boyfriend. I mean, a little cynical part of me (the part that remembers about a thousand broken promises by a variety of douchebag boyfriends) thinks that it might be puppy love, and I'm a little scared that she's so optimistic she's gonna get hurt, but another part of me (the part that listens to Taylor Swift) thinks this is the most AMAZING THING IN THE WORLD. And it's so nice to see her once in a while and remember that the world isn't full of jerks.

So I take it back. I hate am uneasy around charming boys. I hate don't like how they can do the most appalling things but all they have to do is crack a joke or flash a smile and everyone adores them again. I guess this is why I may have, in the past, gravitated toward guys who are really (and I mean really) rough around the edges, because they seem to have no pretense.

But. Uh. No. So wrong. Unfortunately life is not a romance novel. Which means that that guy who's a little brusque and rude and not so nice to you? He's not hiding any inner pain that you can magically cure him of. He's actually kind of just a jerk who probably likes making girls cry. And you know how in love stories two people will find each other infuriating and engage in a shouting match that ends up in a steaming bedroom scene (ref: The Notebook, or any other love movie ever made)? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life either. Apparently being told about all your character deficiencies isn't a big turn on. Who knew criticizing someone's personality didn't count as foreplay?

I had to read this book for one of my classes called The Female Quixote and I feel like every boy in the world should read this. It's set in late 19th century England and it's all about this young woman who's beautiful and intelligent and rich and basically perfect except that she was brought up in a castle far from society and all she had for entertainment were romance novels. Yes that's right. So she expected all her "lovers" to suffer in quiet anguish for her (confessing one's love was very much not allowed in her romance novels) and only after years of this kind of emotional torture could he maybe kiss her hand and that would be enough for him to be inspired to go off and perform all these mighty deeds in the name of his love and when he comes back, the lovely lady will blush and avert her eyes and confess that she "does not hate him" and he will rejoice and proclaim himself the happiest man alive. I swear I'm not exaggerating at all.

So I don't get why anyone would call me high maintenance just because I like shoes and don't hate compliments. It's like uh. Am I asking you to buy me shoes? No. I buy my own damn brightly colored sneakers or questionably skanky boots. And if I get a little upset because your insults outweigh the compliments you give me by maybe 1000 to 1 then no, I'm not being unreasonable or childish, you are being a bully and a stupid douchebag a fellow human being who is completely entitled to your own opinions, but wouldn't the world be a much nicer place if we didn't poison other people's souls all just tried to have a more positive attitude?

This zen shit stuff is hard awesome.

The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

My idea of a good compromise: When Mango makes dinner and then I say I'll do the dishes but get too caught up in whatever sports game we're watching so he takes them to the sink and when I get up to help he says "sit down, you know you don't have to lift a finger here." (He literally says this, I think it might be part ironic but whatevers)

My idea of a not-so-good compromise: What happened to my hair over winter break.

Let me start at the beginning. If you've known me for a period of over two weeks you'll probably know that my hair is the bane of my existence. I'll complain about it for a few months, then I'll cut it, then I'll complain about it for a week, then I'll be reasonably satisfied with it for two months, then the process will start all over again.

This is because my hair is the most contrary thing ever. Like if if my hair were a child it'd be the kind of child who would knock all the items off a supermarket shelf and shriek while you frantically try to hide all the broken bottles before security arrives. Or if it were a preteen it'd be the kind who'd dye its hair the opposite of its natural color and get an eyelid piercing and use red paint to cover its walls in bad poetry. If it were an ex-girlfriend it'd be the kind who would steal all your forks.

So you get the point. Basically my hair sucks. And what I did to it over winter break did not help.

We were in Taiwan, a place known to me as home of good, plentiful food, generous uncles and cheap cosmetic procedures. My mom, you might remember, is fairly concerned over my appearance (refer to any post on dieting). I mean, she's not like a pushy crazy mother, like the kind you see on Toddlers and Tiaras. But I think in general she's just kind of girly, which would put her girliness level at wayy above mine, so we have some disagreements.

Like in Taiwan. She really, really, reeeally wanted me to get my hair straightened. Like the way she put it, it was like her main goal in life for the foreseeable future.

I did not want my hair straightened. First of all, remember how my hair sucks? It does not listen to damaging salon straightenings. I had done that to my hair once and three days later it was waving like a beauty contest winner at the town's annual parade. My mom dragged me back to the salon and demanded to know what happened. The lady who did my hair examined my head, prodded a little, and announced, "It's not our fault. That's just the way her hair is."

So I did not see why this time would be any better. My mom, however, had her own opinion. "Technology has improved," she insisted. "It's going to be successful this time."

It was not.

I admit that this was partly my fault. Instead of getting straightened hair that would plaster to my head and make me look like a basset hound, I wanted something kind of not like that at all. I wanted the kind of weird little crimpy hair things that I can't adequately describe but is basically the opposite of a straightening. The overly-diplomatic stylist thought it would be a good idea for my mother and I to not have a smack-down fight in the middle of his salon, so he made the suggestion that he would just straighten the TOP part of my hair, and then if I so desired I could crimp the bottom part to my heart's content.

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

So now what's happened is that my hair is half really flat and half really sticky-out-in-different-directions and basically wholly awful.

My Day Has Been as Confusing and Bad as this Blog Post.

When I woke up this morning and couldn't move, I should've known it was going to be a shitty day. I sometimes mess up my neck and have to spend a few days trying really hard not to make sudden movements with my head, which severely dampens my reaction time so if you see me this week please don't throw anything at my head because I won't be able to dodge it and let's be honest, you don't really have the money to pay for the reconstructive surgery, do you? That's what I thought.

So I had the spend the entire day turning my whole body if someone was addressing me, which you probably don't think is that weird but wait until you have to do it yourself.

So that's one.

Two?

My fantasy team is killing me. Not literally but it's getting close. Like if I drop one more place I will probably get an ulcer and in an attempt to cure it I'll probably drink a lot and then I'll get liver disease and die, and IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT CHAUNCEY BILLUPS?

My conversation with my friend Tard didn't improve my mood --

Me: my team's killing me

Tard: yes they are

Tard: I knew this was going to happen eventually

Tard: your team was doing too well

Me: I swear I'm this close to killing someone

Me: it could be you, tard

Me: it could be you

Tard: I didn't know you cared so much

Me: oh you'll find out how much I care

Me: with a knife in your kidney

Tard: wow ok

So in addition to the ulcer I may be facing jailtime. Not sure.

So that's two.

Three: the contents of my refrigerator?

Two bags of dumplings and one bag of wontons that the Y was kind enough to buy for me yesterday. Other than that, there's my flask of Svedka, a jug of water and some string cheese that, frankly, I'm a little scared to eat. Does prepackaged cheese go bad? I seriously need to get a car so that when I have a day like this one instead of writing a rage-filled blog post that doesn't even mention Taiwan or Korea (at least until now) I can just go buy some ice cream and maybe a cat because let's face it, I'm going to end up as one of those people who owns a cat and eats cookies and cream for dinner on Tuesday nights. Why is this, you ask? This is because of

Number four: I make the worst decisions a girl in my situation can conceivably make. Like if you got a puppy and put my life choices in front of it in form of those little bone-shaped biscuits I can guarantee you 98% of the time it will make a better choice than I would. And I am armed with facts and experience. Which apparently counts for nothing here.

It's times like this when I look back on my admittedly not-too-long life and muse, "how did I screw things up this badly?"

Now, I may be being a little dramatic. It's not like I have a heroin addiction and am carrying the child of a 50 year old married man whose company has just put my parents' out of business and so my whole family is depending on the income I generate as a stripper which will soon end because of the aforementioned pregnancy. So it's not as bad as that.

But I haven't exactly made some stellar choices either. Like when I look at my peers (is that a douchey word to use? I feel like it is) and some girl is graduating at the top of her class in her very competitive major and already has an internship with the biggest publishing house on the west coast that will turn into a full-time job after she's done with school and she's engaged to her boyfriend who knows how to tie his own ties and always picks her up when he says he will then I'm like hm. Maybe could've done things a little differently. Me, not her. Clearly. I bet she doesn't even like ice cream.

Like I'm always saying I want to meet some new people and do something different with my life but this is exactly the reason I don't like to actually go out and socialize or anything like that. When you meet someone for the first time, there is no warning signal that goes off and says "stay away from this person, you will become close friends and you'll give him the key to your apartment for emergencies but one day you'll wake up to find him sitting at the foot of your bed and smiling while he hums the theme from Titanic."

Something like that. Or maybe something less drastic, like this guy who sits down next to you in class one day is going to write you love songs and take you on picnics to the beach and ridicule tweens with you and eventually end up breaking your heart. Or it might even be good, like that waitress at your favorite restaurant is going to become your best friend and be the maid-of-honor at your wedding and bring you a cinnamon pretzel to keep you from fleeing the altar. BUT YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU?

And that just leaves you seven months later thinking back to that ill-fated first text message or first phone call or first drink sent across the bar and you're like, wow. Did I pick the wrong choice on that one or what. Should never have called her/slept with him/gotten that tattoo of her face/kidnapped his dog, etc.

But no matter how much you rethink your choices, I guess that's just life. Like as much as I may have just bitched, I don't regret things. It's like a policy of mine. I suspect most of it stems from a strong dislike of admitting I'm wrong, but no matter how you stack it, everything's considered life experience, right? Unless you keep making the same mistakes over and over again. This is why I don't re-date boys. But my point is that people are terrible and scary and probably often crazy but you're going to have to deal with them anyway. And I guess it's okay to believe the best of them even though once in a while it'll come back to bite you really hard and you'll have days like the one I just had. But now that you are armed with my wise interpretation of it, you'll be able to deal with it better, right? And a last word of advice: always sleep with a stuffed animal that has a can of pepper spray hidden in it so that if you pull the tail the pepper spray will spray out of its mouth. You're welcome.

Jet Lag, Customer Service, and A Potential Cry for Help.

To quote Iz, upon arriving at SFO international airport: "oh thank GOD for American men!"

And that about sums up my winter vacation.

Haha no I'm just kidding. Actually a ton of shiz happened that will probably span several posts, many of which probably won't end up being actually written. But just to keep myself accountable:

1. Korea. It's cold.

2. My grandparents' story.

3. The wrong restaurant.

4. Babies: sometimes they're kinda ugly.

5. Stanford. Four years later, nothing has changed.

6. Photoshop photoshoot.

7. Uncle Paddington and his countryside abode.

8. Shopping, shopping, and did I mention shopping? Plus mah hair.

9. My drunken uncles.

10. Chinese-style parking lot money-shoving fight.

There, that makes it seem a lot easier. So I got back yesterday around noon. After lunch I collapsed into my memory foam (the first time I've had a bed to myself in two weeks -- it was heavenly, I don't know how I'll ever stand being married) and knocked out for the rest of the year. I know, I'm a party animal.

Anyway, today I was much better thanks in part to the sixteen total hours of sleep I got the day before and in another part to a McDonald's iced coffee (diet commences when I return to school, I swear). So Iz and I went to the mall because I hadn't recklessly spent American money in a while finished my Secret Santa shopping yet. And that is where Iz Got Hit On By a Slightly Creepy Older Gentleman.

This is how it happened.

Iz and I were at one of those carts that they have in the middle of the mall, those mini-store things. We wanted to buy some of this $50 face-wash system thing but the guy was nowhere to be found. While we were waiting, this one guy from the cell phone stand next to it (like three feet away) came over and joked, "It's all free today!" While we were considering just taking the products and leaving $2 and a note ("we weren't sure how much it cost -- hope this covers it") when he added, "Nah, I think the guy stepped away for a second to use the restroom."

So we waited another few minutes. And then a few minutes more. Pretty soon it was coming up on fifteen minutes (Iz whispered, "This guy is taking a fat poop") when another one of the cell phone guys came over. He started making small talk in that way guys do when they're working up to a way to ask for a girl's number and these situations make me nervous so I wandered off under the guise of looking for a trash can in which to throw this little piece of paper I had on me. I know, I'm a terrible wingwoman/big sister.

Anyway, when I came back he was asking her what she does, and when she told him she was a comm major at UCSD he looked kind of surprised. Then he told her he had a journalism degree from University of Oklahoma (? some state like that) and that he spent six years working with the Air Force and that this mall job was just temporary while he was adjusting to his recent move to the Bay. Then he asked her for her number.

Oh my god that was the reason I avoid situations like that. It was so awkward while she just stood there going "mmm hmmm rmmm ehhh eeeh" until finally I totally butted in and was like "uhmm well she has a boyfriend" and then the guy just smiled real big and was like "well who said we have to go on a date? can't I just get your number?" And then it was more awkward and no one spoke until I said loudly, "Hmm, I wonder where the toy store is?" which was supposed to be a hint for Iz to be like, "oh, I know!" and lead us away but I don't think she got it because she just kept smiling politely and the guy kept waiting expectantly and I kind of blocked out the rest but I know we eventually left and the guy did not have a number to show for his efforts.

And then after we left Iz and I had the following conversation:

Me: Eek.

Iz: That was weird.

Me: Yeah, he's way too old for you.

Iz: Really? How old do you think he was?
Me: Well he graduated from college, right? And then he worked for the Air Force for six years? And then he moved back here? So he's probably like 30. And you look and act like you're 12.

Iz: He worked for the Air Force for six years?

Me: Uh, yeah. He mentioned that like twice.

Iz: Oh. I wasn't listening.

Me: Oh my god.

Iz: I feel bad. Maybe I should've given him my number.

So if anyone is looking for a pity date..

Anyway, that's that. Tomorrow I'm flying off to Los Angeles (the third plane I'll have been on in as many days) and luckily Maaron is picking me up from the airport so I won't have to drag my four pieces of luggage the mile between the Flyaway stop and my apartment. This marks the first time in four years that I've been picked up from LAX. I need more friends with cars am certainly very independent.

Independence occasionally has a drawback, however. Like tomorrow I am getting back to Los Angeles before any of my roommates or friends and I am slightly worried that a serial killer has been holed up in our empty apartment all break and I'll be the first one to discover him in three weeks and oh god he's going to cut my ears off. I am so serious about this that I am honestly considering asking Maaron to come up and check for monsters when he drops me off. But after that I'll deadbolt the door and I'll be fine, right? Right? Killers can't climb three stories onto a balcony and then break through the glass of double French doors and then track down the only occupant in the apartment in mere seconds by following her singing to the shower, right? RIGHT?

Okay, just making sure. I'm actually thinking it won't be that bad. The first day I moved into my apartment I was also unexpectedly left alone at night and I totally survived it and this was before the internet or cable was hooked up. Still, if you don't hear from me in a few days...

Guy Love.

Alright I lied. I'm totally back with a super long post but feel free to read this in a week if you're looking to pace yourself/can't stand my endless rambling two days in a row.

Today I met up with a bunch of my old friends and had lunch and realized that wow I am lucky. It might just be in comparison to some stuff going on in the rest of my life but it's still true, I've been pretty fortunate on the whole friendship front. And of course I have great girl friends too, but today I'm really grateful for my guy friends. We're not as close now, so it's not like something happened recently to ignite this feeling or anything, but back in high school and even the first few years of college when we all saw each other more often than twice a year, these guys were awesome.

And even now I have really strong guy friendships in my life. I usually find myself telling them more than I would tell a girl, just because I know my guy friends are less likely to repeat things and because they can give me the guy perspective on what I'm telling them, which unfortunately is usually about some other guy screwing up my life.

So that's something: if I have all these awesome guy friends in my life, guys who are thoughtful and kind and respectful and smart, why do I so often end up messing around with someone who is ... the opposite of that? Ah, but even I know it's not as black and white as that. Of course, my guy friends are thoughtful and kind and respectful and smart to me, but that's because we are just friends. They don't make it a habit of showing me their mean, petty, rude sides, just like I don't yell at them sleep with them or expect them to tell me I'm pretty (it's actually kind of weird when they comment on my appearance -- although that's not a discouragement, guys -- I'm sure if you keep complimenting I'll get used to it). So maybe it's not right to judge it like that, but now that we're strangely and slowly growing up, I've been able to see these friends get girlfriends and from what I can tell, they haven't suddenly transformed into beasts or anything like that.

Take my old friend Stuffin for example. We used to actually be really good friends, but college and new friends and significant others have distracted from that. We were pretty close in high school though, and he was like a brother to me and Iz. When we still lived near him he used to pick us up all the time when we were meeting up with friends, and one Christmas he went with me to pick out a Christmas tree because my parents were too busy to do it. He carried the tree into our living room and, while I was calling my mom with the good news ("I bought a tree! I bought a tree! It's in our living room now!") he found a broom and dustpan and was sweeping all the stray Christmas tree needles up. One year when I came home for summer, my flight was scheduled for when my parents were at work so he offered to pick me up. I joked that I'd always wanted to be greeted at the airport with balloons and when he got me he brought along those cute little balloon on a stick things. And if you guys think that is being a good friend, then imagine how he must be as a boyfriend, because he treats his girlfriend a thousand times better than that.

Or my friends Laycon and Mango (back when Mango and I had only ever been friends). One week in my second year in college I was really sick. It was probably the worst (non-alcohol related) illness I'd ever had in college -- the accompanying cough lasted half a year, if that gives any indication to just how badly I felt like dying that week when it was at its worst. Anyway, when my neighbors Laycon and Mango heard I was threatening to jump out my window just to put myself out of my misery, they rushed over. And I lived on the fourth floor, which just shows what good friends they were. The jump wouldn't even have killed me. But anyway, Laycon came with a water heater and made me like thirty cups of tea, and I don't remember what Mango brought (probably nothing) but I do remember that I was already kinda starting to like him back then so I was WRACKED WITH AGONY both because my lungs were like 75% phlegm but also because I looked horrible, like unbrushed-hair-runny-nose-glasses-puffy-eyes horrible.

So when Mango knocked on my door, I opened it like half an inch and peered out like that crazy lady whose yard the neighborhood kids aren't allowed to go in.

"Yes?" I said.

"Hi," he said, trying to look through the door. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible." I said.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"No, I look so disgusting."

"But we haven't hung out in a while."
"I know, but if you see my face we will never hang out again because you'll be like oh god she's ugly."

"Okay, you know I wouldn't say that."

"You might."

"Carolyn..."

"We can chat, but you can't look at my face."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

And this is how we had a thirty minute conversation wherein Mango's eyes were glued to the floor the entire time. Once he interrupted what I was saying with a frantic "Sorry!" and I was like, "What?" and he was like "I accidentally saw your foot" and I felt kind of like I was in a Victorian novel. And it was cool, because I love Victorian novels.

So, with these examples of Good Guys in mind, comes the age-old question: "so why are girls attracted to jerks?"

And, as is usually the case when we have these difficult to resolve questions, it is time for...

DUMDUMDUMDUM

A Panel

Question of the Day: Why are girls so ridiculously and stupidly attracted to jerks?

For this question I was totally fair and asked three boys and three girls, but it was unanimous: everyone agreed that girls seem to like jerks more than nice guys.

Then the big question was: why? Are we just stupid? Or is there actually a reason that we gravitate toward guys who make us wish we could shrink really small and crawl inside their heads so we can kick their brains?

Well, I got a variety of answers to my questions but they were very interesting and probably true.

Almost all the boys said that they felt jerks got more girls because they were more confident or outgoing.

To quote Laycon, "bad boys make girls hot, good boys make good friends; nice guys are usually more timid and reserved and don't give off sex appeal."

Hmm.. I don't know if I can attest to this. There must be some limit to the "bad," right, because I know I definitely don't find convicts attractive. Orange really doesn't do it for me. But it is true, when you meet a nice, quiet guy you immediately think aww it would be so cool if we could be friends. Unless there's like incredible magical chemistry, in which case you think aww it would be so cool if I could jump his bones. No? Justs me? Okay, moving on.

My friend Tard thinks confidence is the dealmaker also, he said, "Jerks tend to not care what they do, which shows confidence. They're more hotheaded and less cautious, which is exciting."

Hmm I don't know about that either. I find careless guys nerve-wracking and I really like even-headed guys who stay calm through all types of situations because to be honest if anyone's gonna overreact IT'S GONNA BE ME OKAY? And also, there's that one quintessential "bad boy" thing about having a motorcycle, which I've never really found that attractive. I don't know why, I'm not against it and I could see how it could be a potential turn on for girls but I have just never met anyone who personified it. Maybe I'm just lazy and like to sit in cars with the luxuries of radio and a/c. Or maybe I should stop picturing old bearded men on Harleys when I think "motorcycle."

Iz asked Poops the same question and his answer was so awesome I have to quote it directly:

Poops: Girls like jerks more because they are more outgoing.

Iz: so.. what are you [I knew she would get sidetracked; note: Iz not a good investigative reporter]

Poops: I'm in between

Poops: Nice guy in the beginning

Poops: Jerk in the end

Iz: PUHlease no you're not

Poops: PEACE

Poops: YOU FELL FOR ME WOMAN

Of course, the girls had their own opinions about the matter.

Whenever paneling comes up Iz sets aside her oversized novelty stationery and her habit of pluralizing every single word (Iz speak: everys singles words) and tries to sound like an intelligent 20 year old instead of a toddler who has developed really, really slowly. Like slowly to the point where the parents are flying to specialists around the country. Anyway, here's what she had to say:

Iz: The mean behavior can be addicting for those who aren't experienced yet. It's like they'll be a jerk and then they'll be super nice to you and the contrast makes you get addicted to them more.

Me: What if you are experienced?

Iz: Hm... then it might be hot for a while. But that's it. Being a jerk is a pretty big turn off.

Amen.

Teenie: It's a pride thing. At first girls are like "how dare you not treat me like a princess?!" and then they get intrigued. You're drawn to him because you want to win him over. Or maybe it's the sad fact that guys who are jerks know that they have something going for them, and hence they can afford to be a jerk? It's like, goddamnit you're such an asshole but I'd like to jump your bones anyway.

Hm... I am familiar with that phenomenon. Does this contradict my agreement with what Iz said? Now you see why my life is so confusing.

Meema: The thing is, if a guy is really nice, he can easily be put on the Friend Ladder. Because he's friendly and non-provoking. Attraction needs a little danger sometimes, something to excite. If he's nice and NOT boring, then it's a much better situation. But that's hard to find often.

So it seems like the conclusion is that interestingness(?) in a guy is more important than niceness. Which blows, but might possibly be true. The funny thing is that while it seems that everyone agrees girls go for the jerks, it's not really holding true in my personal experience. I mean, I admit I've gone through the phase of being interested in the kind of guy who can roll a joint drunk and in the dark but isn't sure what, exactly, a library is for. That was called high school. But now I am a completely mature and independent woman who totally knows what she wants in life and would never ever again hook up with a guy who thinks it's okay to refer to a girl as a stupid bitch as long as he assured her he was joking afterwards ("it means I love you, baby"). Right?

And not to get all disgusting and sentimental right here but to come full circle -- it's my guy friends (remember that topic?) who usually remind me that hey, I might get my heart broken or at least fairly insulted by jerks but it's the nice guys who will listen and okay, they might not go hunt down and kill anyone for me, but they can definitely make me dinner and tell me I'm pretty (this is a surprisingly effective cure for sadness). And, in the last year, no one's been better at that for me than Mango.

So, for his birthday (he's turned 20 today, prime Spongebob-watching age) --

10 Reasons I Love Mango

10. He doesn't care that I often plaster his personal life all over my blog, usually including pictures of him in strange poses.

9. He knows me (scarily) well, which is a plus because sometimes it's nice to be understood and not completely misjudged. For example, when we went whale-watching at Newport Beach we were sailing out of the harbor(?) and there were all these beachfront mansions and I saw this set of three. The first mansion was this big modern one, where all the walls were made of glass. The second one was this really cute Victorian-esque sunbeamy yellow thing with white trim. The last one was Grecian, I guess, it was white marble with big tall pillars. Anyway, I pointed the trio out to Mango and said, "So when you get super rich, which one are you going to buy me?" And he looked at them and was like "the third one" and I was like "OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU KNOW" and he just kind of rolled his eyes and was like "well duh, I know you."

8. He knows me, and still sticks around. He may be one of the only people on earth who can handle me when I'm in one of my moods. Usually he's the only one within kicking distance (I wonder why..) but when it strikes, he usually kind of just sits through it until I've let off all my steam and then he'll look at me all calmly and say, "well, you know I'll love you no matter what." And if you can continue being mad after something like that you're a much more willful woman than I am. Also he sometimes has candy.

7. He always shares his candy.

6. He makes me dinner at ridiculous times like 4:30 PM because I never have time for lunch and then when I get hungry again around 10 PM he not only doesn't mock me for eating so late, he will order food with me and then go pick it up from downstairs when the delivery guy comes. And then afterwards when I complain about how fat I am he will only agree a little.

5. I can wear my baggy sweats and a lumpy sweatshirt and my dorky glasses around him and he'll be like "you pull that look off well" and then I'll stop mentally freaking out that I'm the grossest person in the world.

4. He always takes my side.

3. When I promise we'll hang out and then I come over and fall asleep for four hours on his bed and then wake up and say "I'm sleepy, I'm gonna go home" he will walk me and not complain that technically we didn't actually do anything fun.

2. When he walks me home and there's no one in my apartment at like 2 AM he always checks for monsters and will wait for me to shower because he knows I get scared when it's late and dark and the apartment is empty and I have to shower because what if I open the door when I'm done and THERE IS A MASKED MURDERER SITTING ON MY BED? This is an honest, real fear of mine. Sometimes the murderer is wearing an animal head.

1. He is my best buddy.

Well that's that. I'm leaving for Korea tomorrow so if you don't hear back from me please send former President Clinton over there asap. But if all goes well I should be in Taiwan by Saturday around noon, and Saturday around one PM I will probably have overdosed from pearl milk tea. Barring that though, I will take a lot of pictures and report back and I swear that I will actually do it. Not like that time with Hawaii. Haha. Remember that? Good times.

This Post is Gonna Be So Long You're Going to Be Sick of My Writing for a Good Three Weeks so Yay! It All Works Out.

Remember me? I'm sorry. I know -- yes, you have every right to be angry. It's just that things have been so hectic, and then -- of course I care about you, how can you ask that? I know I promised to write on -- but you should understand that they needed me to -- you know, have you ever thought that maybe it's you? Yeah, I said it. Maybe you're just not supportive enough and I couldn't feel like I could talk to you. So instead of pointing fingers, maybe you should take a long, deep look within yourself and -- oh, don't cry. Here, let's just call it even and forget everything, okay? And maybe make me a sandwich? Great, you're the best.

And that's how I would apologize if I were a boy.

But anyway, hello. Apparently I have this tradition (I'm going to call it a tradition instead of an unfortunate habit because that is the kind of denial positive thinking I am capable of) of not writing for a really long time and then feeling bad and putting up a ridiculously long and nonsensical post right before I leave the country.

So yeah, I'm leaving the country! My flight out is this Thursday, right after Mango's birthday tomorrow (happy birthday fool). It's like a fourteen hour flight to Korea (I wish so hard that I was exaggerating right now) and we'll be there for two to three days before making the shorter flight over to Taiwan. I'm not scared of flying at all, but sometimes I get a little claustrophobic in the stale cabin when it's going on hour eleven and my legs feel cramped no matter how much I am intruding into the personal space of the passenger in front of me, and I've already gone through the Sky Mall magazine twice, and made a third attempt to eat the congealed lasagna in front of me and OH GOD IF I DON'T GET OUT OF HERE I'M GOING TO THROW UP OR SHOOT MYSELF. Usually I just play the most soothing music I have and try to fall asleep. Sometimes I throw up.

So anyway, there's that to look forward to. I don't really know what I've been up to the last two weeks. I've definitely been enjoying my student pass to all the UCLA basketball games, and that might have something to do with all the tall, good-looking athletic guys because it sure isn't our 3-6 record that keeps me enthralled. Anyway, our student section is called The Den (because we're Bruins -- isn't that cute?) and they pass out a newsletter kind of thing at the beginning of each game debriefing us about who the opponent is. And there's this section called "The Dirt" where they trashtalk the other team and oh my god look at this one from a little while ago:

It's like they're personally attacking me. Also I'd like to meet this AJ guy. Also I don't know why my Paint made that stupid white erasey mark. Life hates me today and GUESS WHAT THE FEELING IS MUTUAL. Okay I might be PMSing (I bet you guys are like omg why does this girl get her period every other week? but sometimes it's not that, sometimes I'm just a bitch).

Also I spent a lot of time studying and a lot of time playing video games. Speaking of which, Mango has gotten into the habit of complaining that I've become "too girly." His comments are based on the dual facts that I occasionally roll some glitter around my eyes and that I seem to fall into an unbreakable kind of trance anytime I approach a store that even remotely looks like it could be selling some sort of clothing.

This second thing is nothing new though, if you have ever shopped with me you should know this. It's like I am some sort of homing device. The second I spot something of interest I will completely zone out my surroundings and make a beeline for whatever has caught my eye. I often lose my shopping companions by doing this. But it's not my fault they can't keep up, it's not like there's a rule against running in malls. I should know. But I guess it can be disconcerting to the people who accompany me; one second we are having a perfectly pleasant conversation about whether or not it is acceptable to wear black and brown together (it is not), and the next thing they see is a somewhat possessed gleam in my eye before I take off sprinting. Sometimes I don't return for days.

This is why I am looking so forward to shopping in Taiwan. It's like one huge Ross except everything is aimed at young women who like cute things oh my god it's heaven.

Well I mean there's also a lot of weird shiz. Like I remember when I went back years ago there was this really popular chain of stores decked out in bright neon lights that my childish eyes were immediately attracted to which would be a good marketing strategy except that the name of the store was "CONDOM WORLD" and they only sold one product (three guesses what it is -- although I'm sure there were many, many varieties of that one product).

Also trendy when I was last in Taiwan were black blinged out tshirts showing a giant middle finger wearing like three rings with silver chains around the wrists. And the silver chains were actual metal chains hanging off the tshirt. So it's really more of a pick-and-choose market.

But that was a long time ago. So long, in fact, that Iz and I weren't yet allowed to wear nail polish (I know, insanity right?) whereas this time I plan to bring back a small suitcase filled solely with metallic and sparkly bottles of awesome. Jesus, maybe Mango is right.

Something else I want to do in Taiwan is streak my hair purple and get a tongue ring. Only one of these will be accomplished, and I'll give you a hint as to which one -- my parents like the color purple much more than they like punching holes into any part of the body that is not an earlobe (and even then it gets at least three disapproving clicks of the tongue). I'm trying to console myself by thinking about how I can get my ears re-pierced (this is how lazy I am -- I lost two of my earrings and didn't put in more studs for months and then when I tried: lo and behold, piercings heal, and now I just have one piercing left [if you're good at math or at least didn't get flunked out of remedial addition then you know I was supposed to have three piercings] so I'm like some sort of weird lopsided earring pirate... you know, like instead of having one eye I just have one piercing? okay never mind) and so I can finally wear cute earrings again and Iz will stop asking if the one piercing I have is "on the gay side."

So there's that.

Since we're going to Korea and none of us know anything about Seoul except that all the girls have cancer and all the boys are in love with someone who is actually their biological sister separated from birth (unless you're saying Korean dramas aren't an accurate indicator of the country's societal norms?), my mom asked if I could look something up online so that we don't get lost and never return or accidentally purchase a life-size cow made of solid gold that costs more than our house in America is worth.

So then I googled something like "korea tourist guide" and the first result was for the wikitravel article on South Korea and I was very happy because I love wikipedia and then the second search result caught my eye and it was the wikitravel article on NORTH KOREA. So naturally I had to click that one first and this is what I found:

Click to enlarge and you better do it because look how hard I worked

Isn't that awesome and weird? And terrifying?

And then I went to the Seoul page and found out I would not be entirely safe in the south either:

I'm a little nervous about my trip.

Speaking of angry, it's come to my attention lately that certain people who will remain unnamed think that I am a really angry but well-dressed person who is sincere about wanting to stab everything in sight. So I feel like I should clear this up, and not just for future litigation purposes: I only want to stab half of what I talk about stabbing. Are we good now? Okay. I tried to explain to these people (actually it was just one but I don't want to single this person out but then I was like well I don't want people to think that there is just like a horde out there who doesn't understand me so yeah it's just one person) that "it's just my writing style" and the person was like, very skeptically, "I've never heard of the writing style stabby" and I was like "well maybe you should spend more time reading and less time suggesting I look into anger therapy, yeah?" And then we ended our conversation in a completely civil manner that involved no bloodshed. See how suppressed mature I am?

Okay so I'm grouchy and don't know what to wear tomorrow and my feet are cold and my cramps feel like a stampede of thirty pound centipedes wearing soccer cleats are doing a jig in my stupid UNNECESSARY uterus so I'm going to leave before anyone reading this gets too alarmed and tries to come put me down before I can cause any damage to my immediate vicinity.

One last thing. Happy 20th birthday to my favorite tropical fruit even though I'm slightly allergic to it:

This blog loves you and dinosaurs. More dinosaurs though.

I Hate Everybody and Not Being Able to Stab.

Men are so unreliable. In the interest of not hating, I concede that there must be reliable men somewhere out there but I think they might be a myth because I CERTAINLY HAVE NEVER COME ACROSS ANY. Sorry, it's the whole anger thing again. And I'm not even PMSing so I'm considering going to a therapist or something for all these issues I seem to have.

Although I think I may be justified.
So yesterday I arrived back in Westwood via Southwest Airlines and the Flyaway shuttle, which stops like a mile away from my apartment. A mile filled with dark roads and a cemetery, just so you know. Anyway, my friend [name withheld for protection (my protection, not his, because if this person turns up in the area with mysterious eye wounds I will not be implicated)] was supposed to meet me at the shuttle stop but guess what? He didn't. And so I had to walk by the dark cemetery alone. It's a miracle I didn't get eaten by zombies. Here is a list of what I learned so that hopefully you will also be able to survive in a situation like this.

1. When your friend offers to meet you at the shuttle stop do not accept. Especially if other friends offer you a ride but your friend says "no, I'll get you because we can hang out and catch up after Thanksgiving break" so you say "okay, I'm dumb and will do that instead." And do not think you are being thoughtful by reminding him days in advance of the time you are arriving because this will not matter and he will leave you to the mercy of the zombies anyway.

2. If you pass by a fire station that has a sign proclaiming "SAFE HOUSE" don't get too hopeful because it just means that it's a place where children in danger can be dropped off and not that it's a haven from zombies. And if you stare too longingly at the fire engines that you're hoping are Transformers in disguise and will take you home then passersby will give you strange looks and walk a little more briskly.

3. If you scare all the passersby out of your immediate vicinity then no one will help you lift your fifty pound suitcase over a tall curb.

Eventually my friend got back to school and ran to find me which didn't really help with the anger but did help with the fatigue because he took all my luggage. And then he got all these pitying looks because he looked like a pack mule with all my luggage and all his while I strode briskly and angrily by him empty-handed.



So the moral of the story is that men cannot be trusted. It's actually kind of like a extended metaphor because I'm not too mad about this anymore but I am mad about something else that cannot be so easily explained away with zombies and blurry iPhone pictures. I don't even think I can stab my way out of it. So there is nothing to alleviate the anger and if you find me with my head completely exploded within the next week just rejoice for me because honestly that is probably the best-case scenario at this point.

The Queen of the South

Swamped in papers and confusion and just general discontentment with life-- you know the kind that rolls around during finals season? Or the week before Thanksgiving when you realize you might not actually have time to eat any turkey because you'll be so busy writing four essays and trying not to stick a gun in your mouth? Yeah, that kind of feeling. So in lieu of me making lame jokes about pop music or boys or how I set off the fire alarm when I try to make breakfast (true story, it happened this morning -- I do believe that my brain may possibly be missing some sort of homemaker gene?), here's something somebody else wrote that is neither lame nor funny but kind of what life is all about:

"I wonder if you'll make a mistake someday and tell me you love me."
She turned to look at him when she heard his words. He was not upset with her, or in a bad mood. It was not even a reproach. "I love you, cabron."
"Of course you do." He was always making this joke. In his easygoing way, watching her, inciting her to talk, provoking her.
"You'd think it cost you money," he would say. "You're so cool... You've got my ego, or whatever you call it, beat to a pulp." And then Teresa would hold him, kiss his eyes, say I love you, I love you, I love you, over and over. Pinche Gallego piece of shit. And he would laugh as though it didn't matter to him, as though it were nothing but a simple pretext for conversation, a joke, and she were the one that should be reproaching him. Stop, stop. Stop! And in a minute they would stop laughing and stand facing each other, and Teresa would feel powerless at all the things that she couldn't do, while the male eyes would look at her fixedly, resignedly, as if crying a little inside, silently, like some kid running after the older boys that were leaving him behind. A dry, unspoken grief that made her feel so tender, and then she would be almost sure that maybe she did really, actually love this man. And each time this happened, Teresa would repress the impulse to raise her hand and caress Santiago's face in some way hard to know, explain, feel, as if she owed him something and could never repay him.

There are two kinds of men, she thought suddenly: Those who fight and those who don't. Those who take life the way it comes and say, Oh well, what the fuck, and when the spotlights come on put up their hands and say, Take me. And those who don't. Those who sometimes, in the middle of a pitch-dark ocean, make a woman look at them like she was looking at him now.

If I'm This Scattered Writing a Blog Post You Can Imagine How My Final Papers are Going.

Where are you on a Thursday night? I hope you are out at a club trying to pick up a hot guy/girl or downing jagerbombs at a bar because I am sitting at Laycon's desk wearing Mango's monkey hat (see picture) and trying to do an essay about Romeo and Juliet while listening to music that kind of makes me want to kill myself.
Not me. I was too lazy to take a picture so I found one on Google. She looks a little too serious considering her get-up. Also I don't have the gloves but now I know what to get Mango for Christmas this year.

This is vaguely maddening not just for the obvious reasons but also because I thought I was done with high school. I'm so over 14 year olds thinking they are in love and dragging the whole fair city of Verona into their teenage drama. I mean if I can't tell at 21 whether or not I'm anywhere near love then how can a couple of tweens? Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm low on sleep or vegetables or some other integral lifestyle element (cupcakes?) but I'm so distracted today there's no way I can get myself to string 2478 words together in a cohesive manner. A few minutes ago Mango looked over from where he was studying on his bed to find me looking in the closet mirror and squeezing the monkey ears on my hat.

I think I need more animal clothing.

Anyway, I was trying to at least appear to be productive by doing my psych reading and highlighting in lieu of actually processing any words when I came across a sentence too alarming to be glanced over.

"Mortality rates from all causes of death are consistently higher among the unmarried than the married. Unmarried and more socially isolated people have also manifested higher rates of tuberculosis, accidents, and psychiatric disorders such as schizophrenia."

Oh my god you guys. I am at risk for tuberculosis. Isn't that what Nicole Kidman died from in Moulin Rouge? This is just all bad because I don't want to be a hooker or dead or Ewan McGregor's love interest. No I take that back. Ewan McGregor is fine but I don't want to be the love interest of that whiny poet he played in the movie. I mean I'm all for the destitute Parisian lifestyle of the bohemian author but when he THREW THE MONEY AT HER AT THE END? I WAS ENRAGED.

Okay well I guess technically I'm not "socially isolated" but I am unmarried and this paper makes that sound like some bad shiz. And I mean it's not like I have anything against marriage and I'm definitely way too young for that but I don't know anyone who I would even remotely want to spend forever with. Although it looks like I should be less nitpicky if I don't want to die an early death.

I can't believe how quickly this quarter is ending. It's just me getting closer to being homeless, jobless and out on the street so I guess it's pretty natural that I feel like time is flying. This week is basically over and then I'm only here for two days next week, and when I come back from Thanksgiving there's only two more weeks before I peace out of L.A. for practically a whole month. And then it's off to Korea and Taiwan and if I don't kill myself because I'm a size XXL there then I'll have lots of pictures and adventurous stories for you all when I return.

I'm sure you guys can gather from this little blog that my life is pretty boring so it probably won't come as a surprise when I tell you the most exciting thing that happened this week was when the cutest guy in my class told me he liked my backpack. I was very pleased because a) he has good taste and b) he was talking to me. Also c) I was dressed very cutely that day. And I especially loved the way he said it because he spoke very quietly and kind of shyly and made speical mention of the bows I'd glued to like every available surface. Later on when I shared the good news with the Y she suggested that maybe he was gay. I denied this possibility. And then today when I told Aarow he had the same reaction. I mean I guess they could be right but I have my doubts because of the way he dresses and how scruffy he looks.

It's not really about him though. It just reminds me that I adore shy guys that aren't groomed to within an inch of their lives and when they're all nice it makes my heart go bumpbump and makes me stutter and then I'm shy and then we never speak again because both of us are too mortified to approach the other. And this is why I'm going to get tuberculosis.

Life is Stupid Awesome.

Today I got called out for my excessive use of violence in my blog. Apparently eye-stabbing isn't a widely accepted form of emotional expression? Or something. So in an attempt to repent, I've decided to try and cut out all gratuitous mentions of stabbing or kicking or even fork-stealing. Consider me reformed.

Other than that, how was my day, you ask? Well really only one notable thing happened. And I'm stretching the definition of notable. I was at work when a package arrived. It was a nice hefty size and it was addressed to me, so naturally I got really worked up and excited until I realized that the return address was Laycon's home, which means his sister/parents had sent him some goody. I was pretty sad, but in a totally non-violent way. So anyway, like the good friend I am I decided to lug the package over to Laycon's apartment, which is more or less on my way home from work.

Two things I learned:

1. Laycon's parents must have sent him goodies in the form of gold bricks because that thing is heavy.

2. I'm kind of a loser.

Elaboration: I had my arms wrapped awkwardly around the bulky box and was trying to distract myself from my not-getting-package sadness by singing along to my iPod. Unfortunately this prevented me from hearing the footsteps from behind that would've warned me I wasn't alone on the path. As it was, however, I was at the height of the song when I saw a guy hurry by. I thought about how I must've sounded to him and started laughing at how weird I am. Only I didn't wait long enough before the giggling started so what he experienced was walking by a girl in a red coat and purple eyeliner singing off-keyedly to herself while struggling with a largeish package and then, when he passed her, unexpected chuckling. Yeah, I totally understand the weird look he gave me over his shoulder.

So there's a guy walking around the school area right now convinced I'm a freak. If you meet him don't listen to his lies. You have the real story. Just kick him in the shins smile and thank him for the warning.

Anyway, by the time I got to Laycon's place my arms were sore and I was overly warm from the brisk walking and a little annoyed because Mango hadn't answered my last two calls telling him to come down and get the package. I was about to do some eye-stabbing figured he was busy with something and decided to try the door buzzer. When no one responded to me over the intercom, I considered throwing a brick through their window called Laycon. He wasn't at home, and wouldn't be for another thirty minutes. I thought about telling him where he could shove his package told him I would call another one of his roommates instead. When I called Maaron and he picked up, he didn't really know what I was talking about and kept telling me to go upstairs. I threatened to burn down their building if no one came immediately tried to explain that I was on my way home and would prefer having someone come down to grab the package so that I could continue on my way. When Roro finally came down to get the package, he received a call before I could greet him. He held up a "wait-a-second" finger and I showed him a finger too silently handed him the package before waving goodbye.

All in all it was quite an infuriating uneventful trip and I am proud to say that my non-violence streak is going strong.

The Difference Between Getting Tied Up and Being Tied Down.

Remember how I like music that may not be of the highest artistic integrity? Well, I find "Tie Me Down" by the New Boyz to be really really catchy. It's a terrible song, let me just get that out there right away. They're just some teenage kids bragging about what pimps they are and how all women are hos. But it's so freaking listen-to-able and usually I just try to switch all the pronouns in my head so that it's from a girl's point of view (he ain't gon' tie me down!)

But even though I know the song is chauvinistic and stupid, part of me kind of believes that's really how guys think. I know that totally makes me sound like a hater, and there are definitely exceptions to the rule out there (like all my roommates' boyfriends and my guy friends like Stuffin and Laycon and Mango and Jchaq), but come on. Kind of, right?

Okay, like this part:

Know we been together for a minute,
But uhhh, its kinda been forever since we been in
The kinda situation not involving other women

I totally chuckled when I heard that for the first time. And I know guys aren't the only ones who can wander in a relationship. I'm totally not the right person to talk to about relationships, by the way, because I am so weird about them. Like for some reason I still believe in True Love and Happily Ever After (blame Disney, that heartless but enchanting corporation) so I end up doing the stupidest things in relationships before I realize that maybe this guy I've been dating for three months isn't the Love of My Life and I should stop believing him when he says he hasn't called because he lost his phone for the third time in two days and that hey, he'd really like to come see me this weekend but unfortunately his car broke down and there are no buses between my house and his and not a single one of his friends will give him a ride and hey, come on, he would ride a horse to come see me if that's what it'd take, baby, but I know he's allergic to horse dander and I wouldn't want him to die, would I?

So it's like years of this type of guy that's turned me into a strange hybrid between hopeless romantic and really angry fork-stealer.

But I digress. My favorite part of the song:

But I'm surprised that you're still standing there
As you know I'm a man and I have no feelings

Okay, okay, I know boys have feelings. But sometimes it seriously feels like they don't. And I just want to stab them in the eye and say "Feel THIS?" but that would probably be frowned upon in a court of law and honestly I wouldn't last a day in prison (too pretty) (just kidding) (not vain).

To sum up I would just like to say if I ever meet a tall boy who likes how fluffy my hair gets after I shower and only buys me flowers in whimsical shapes and enjoys explaining football plays to me then I hope he never reads this because he's going to mistakenly think I may have mild violent tendencies and a worrisome obsession with forks. Not to mention questionable taste in music.

I Totally Take Back What I Said About Pictures Being Easier to Blog.

Hello hello. So I realized that I'm going to have four papers due within a span of about seven days for a total of maybe forty pages? Of original thought. So that sucks. Anyway, I'm going to save all my words for schoolwork so here are some pictures courtesy of my iPhone and Microsoft Paint.
Not sure what this guy was doing on campus. Not giving out free samples, that's for sure. I checked.

So for Jenn's birthday we went to Medieval Times and it was awesome because I'm pretty sure that makes me a princess. A classy one, as you can tell from our napkin menu bill of fare.
That guy is our host/chancellor. He was tall and pretty good looking and there were a bunch of girls there who'd been patronizing the bar and they were flocking around him like crazy. I wasn't one of them. Just to clear that up. I did bring a flask though (not pictured).
They had these knights assigned to each section. Ours was yellow. He lost though.
Probably no explanation necessary.


On Jenn's actual birthday her boyfriend and sister and best friend brought over some ice cream cake. For some reason we let the Y put the candles on.



At the basketball game last week Mango pointed out how they seemed to have buffed up Joe Bruin over the summer. We think they just stuffed extra padding onto the original costume. Either that or steroids.

Oh my goshhh so when we entered Pauley at the start of the game they had these raffle slips for students to fill out, and there was one that if you were chosen you could try to make these shots during halftime to win prizes. AND THEY PICKED MANGO! And he totally refused to go up, even though they broadcast his name like thirty times and had it up on the big screen and everything. He's so going to regret this forever.

Aren't these cute? If anyone ever has to give me a perishable token of their affection I hope it comes in puppy form.

That's all. I hope you enjoyed this because it seriously took me forever to get these pictures to this level of awesome and then I kept accidentally deleting shiz and I was this close to just throwing my computer out the window but instead I powered through it like a real trooper. You're welcome.