Letter to some pretty neat male human beings

Today I'm putting aside my casual hatred of men to make a post about the ones I appreciate. I'm thankful for the dudes who make my life a little bit cooler:

• To the large dude on my bus who wears powder pink high tops;
• To the guys in the coffee shop who switch up their indie playlists for the occasional ABBA, which makes Monday mornings a little bit easier to stomach;
• To the businessman in front of me in line, who grooved to "Dancing Queen" without any hint of embarrassment;
• To the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, reasons obvious;
• To my PI, a man who is so good at being a boss that I somehow never have any complaints (about him);
• To my dad;
• To my awesome boyfriend, who not only puts up with my neuroses but sometimes claims to like them;
• To the men (and women, too) who have invented and improved modern plumbing so that I can take hot showers and use indoor toilets.

Props to you, dudes. Props.


Enjoy that. It's all you'll get from me until men learn what it's like to menstruate.

Some thoughts about women and their blogs

There's scads of blogs by women I will collectively refer to as Barbie Kenswifeywife (nee Homemakertobe) who slave at their computer to rehash every detail of the meatloaf, pancakes, muffins, pie, sandwich, etc that they made for their husband that day and then show us a pretty picture of what it looked like on the plate before he tore it to pieces with his giant dirty man hands. Or feel the need to describe what type of flower a bunny was chewing on in their garden that morning and how it felt to watch a carrot grow. Some of these blogs are actually written by unmarried women (perhaps Skipper Homemakertobe) who seem intent on establishing an anecdotal resume accounting for her skills as a future wife and mother.

What I don't get about this is why these women are so anxious to throw themselves on the pyre of matronly incarceration-- are these the same people that yearn for the retro $150 aprons at Anthropologie? Because listen, honey, the underwear there is much cuter. Your husband will like it more than another apple pie. Also, there are hobbies that won't make you and your husband look like saggy troll dolls when you're naked together. Just a thought.

As women in real life we hit glass ceilings at work, suffer under the antiquated ideals of the older generations, and juggle our personal narratives with conflicting global endeavors. On our own blogs, we are able to choose who are we and what we present to the world-- so why is everyone my age trying to transform herself into a 1950's housewife?

Not to say my blog's perfect, but you won't see me listing my typing speed and a list of dinners I know how to make. You won't see me writing cutesy little things about my weekend or about the homemade facial recipe I tried this weekend. I write this blog with only one aspiration:

For the irritated, for the frustrated, for those embittered and disenchanted with the world, that they may experience catharsis and laughter and fraternity in my rage;
For the dull and boring at heart, that they may be enlightened to all that is more interesting in the world than reality TV, pop music, and baking chocolate chip cookies;
And for the lame, the clueless, the assholes, and the sadsacks, that they may be shamed, shamed, shamed into making this world a less annoying place.

In closing, I would just like to say: I would love to read a woman's blog that is not about cooking, gardening, mothering, knitting, or any sort of crafting. Maybe a law blog, or an auto-repair blog. Send me some links. Next week, for Valentine's Day, I'll make a post highlighting women who are cool. VIVA LA FEMME.

ROAD BITCH: The story of my life

Before I explain how bad NC drivers are, let me tell you two things about the South:

First, let me clarify that when people talk to you about "cities" in the South, they don't mean real cities*. They mean something similar in size to large suburbs in the North, except there's less traffic and less stuff to do. What I mean is that when I drive around Raleigh, NC there's typically street parking available, a scant few couples dispersed on the sidewalk, and if it's a weekend night, a 10-minute wait at the most popular restaurants. That's kind of nice.

Second, when they say there's a slower pace of life here, this has only been apparent to me in a few ways. (A) It takes at least twice as long to grab a cup of plain ol' black coffee anywhere here than it does in Chicago and (B) people walk excruciatingly slow. I'm talking pausing-between-steps-to-not-run-into-the-person -ahead-of-you, awkward-passing-people in the grass, block-away-from-your-apartment-but-not-sure-you'll-make-it-to-the-toilet-because-man-in-front-of-you-is-strolling-at-an-insanely-leisurely-pace slow.

Taking these things into account, I am wondering why, how, why!? are the drivers here so incompetent? They seem to be simultaneously so hurried that they can't be bothered to pay attention to traffic laws and also lackadaisical about actually arriving anywhere efficiently. For example:

1. Traffic. There's no traffic, per se, but there are traffic jams. The reason this occurs is that 50% of drivers, seeing that they will need to merge with the lane to their left in the next mile, choose to stay in the right lane, ZOOMING past people who merged at an obediently reasonable distance from the stoplight. Then, a car's length from the intersection, they force themselves into the leftward lane. This practice, I conclude, is what causes the slowdown in the left lane in the first place.
2. Turn Signals. In spite of their exquisite predilection for merging where no one wants them to merge, it seems as though NC drivers are unaware that their cars are equipped with turn signals. I would say that 90% of the time a car in front of me applies its brakes, I am not sure if there is a dead animal in the road, if their engine has stopped, or if they are in fact turning left or right. It's like a mystery novel without any clues or red herrings, and if you aren't paying attention you could die.
3. Intersections. NC drivers do not seem to understand intersections. In fact, let me explain it for them right here: When a light turns yellow, you stop if you have time, and continue through if it would be unsafe to attempt to stop. Whether or not the car in front of you makes it through the light is not the deciding factor. If the light is already red, do not proceed through the intersection. Do not stop in the middle of the intersection. Do not honk at someone with the right of way who will not let you illegally turn into their lane. Easy, right??? Maybe you can print it out and put it on your windshield.
   

So let me tell you about my day yesterday. I was driving to Target to buy a leash for my cat. (This is a topic for another day.) The following events happened in the should-be-15-minutes-but-took-45-minutes trip.

• Several cars in front of me, a car came to a complete stop on the freeway (with everyone behind him having to slam on their brakes from a 55 mph speed) to let a car from the left lane merge in front of him.
• A few minutes later, another car in front of me swerved ENTIRELY off the road and into the grass and then IMMEDIATELY back on again, without regard for the confused and frightened cars behind him. When I passed him a few minutes later I realized that he was fiddling with his blackberry instead of looking at the road.
• At the fateful merged-intersection #1, the light turned red as a car was passing through. Instead of like, you know, continuing... this car came to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection and then attempted to back up into her lane, which had a car in it already because rational drivers assumed she would continue through the intersection.
• At merged-intersection #2, as we were merging onto the interstate highway, the enormous white trash truck behind me was throwing a hissy fit, honking, and flashing his brights as two cars simultaneously tried to cut me off without using turn signals. All this as we made a 45 degree highway exit and merged into 70 mph traffic.

My first commandment for driving in NC is to never let people merge in front of me. If they continue trying after I make it clear I won't let them, I give them the finger and a big smile. I am not some nice country girl. They can kiss my ass.

NC drivers, listen to me. You need to get better. You need to take your drivers' exams in another state so someone can tell you what is right and wrong. You need to get your money's worth out of those expensive new-fangled turn signal gadgets. I do not want to wonder if I'll die driving 1.5 miles down a country road to my boyfriend's house. THANKS.

*Except in Texas. Texas has real cities, or so I've heard.

TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO BLOGGING, in case you care

Oh hi... here I am.

By way of apologizing for not writing in my blog for the better part of a year and a half, I give you the lame lame lame excuse of saying that I have a boyfriend lately and I'm happy. And you wouldn't want to read posts about how happy I am week after week, right? Otherwise you'd be reading somebody's baking blog or garden blog or "I AM PLANNING THE PERFECTEST WEDDING" blog. And also by way of not apologizing, I suggest you imagine that YOU were dating some really perfect person, and ask yourself if YOU would prefer to stay home on Saturday nights to rant about idiosyncrasies.

Well, the thing is, I sort of miss being able to rant in a way that doesn't make people I know in real life think I am an unabashed murderous weirdo. Actually I really miss it, because there's not enough space in the microblogging world to express my irrationally strong feelings about people who don't use turn signals or post on Facebook six times a day about the kinds of cookies they baked for their increasingly corpulent husband or the depraved misuse of commas in New York Times headlines.

The really good news about my absence is that it has given me time to consider what exactly it is I would like to do with my blog, and also enabled me to accrue a large amount of minty fresh antipathy for the world.

So I'm back. Please come read my blog again. I missed you. In the words of the Jackson 5: Oh, baby give me one more chance! Won't--you--please--let--me back in your heart? How can you resist that?

Quickie

A friend and former coworker in the depressing world of holiday retail recently sent me a link to the following comment because of its obvious relation to my recent diatribes about the marginalization and communal fear of weirdness in society:

not an insult

and I think it's awesome and better than any vile insultry I could possibly spew about discrimination against the odd and unusual on this blog, so I'm sharing it with you now as a lazy but entertaining substitute for my own writing.

I have lately been inundated with science and read-a-thons (not too late to donate!) and angst and exercise, embattled with addictions to coffee and sleep, and so busy being disenchanted with the world that I haven't had time to process it verbally. But soon I will appease the Internet with a fresh entry. In the mean time, have you seen that new movie Babies !?! It is ADORABLE and ETHNOGRAPHICALLY STIMULATING!

Read-a-thon 2010: Open Books, Ltd.

I'll never ask you to donate money to me for my blog... I'm a poor-ass graduate student, but so are the majority of my readers, and this blog is free to operate and fun to write. Also, I can't pretend that it is actually useful for anything other than mild entertainment and thus cannot justify putting any amount of monetary value on it.

HOWEVER, I am now about to ask you to donate to a really cool cause called Open Books, Ltd. It's an organization in Chicago that promotes literacy by providing books and workshops to children and adults in the area. I'm participating in a reading marathon to raise money for these fantastic programs because I think that the next generation of good writers depends on older generations encouraging them to be good readers. This blog wouldn't exist if my home hadn't been full of all kinds of books and family members encouraging me to read them.

I'm attempting to read as much as I possibly can during the month of May. I'm going to donate $.01 per page read, AKA $10 per 1000 pages. You don't have to give, but since I get 30-60 hits on this site a day, I thought I might as well use the blog for something positive and let everyone know about the fundraiser.

Here's the link to my donation site: http://www.firstgiving.com/twisby , which I will be updating periodically (i.e. when I remember) to show the books I am reading and my page count. Thanks so much for your support and for reading this blog!

Inappropriate:

Sometimes thoughts come into my head that are both so novel and entertaining to me that I can't repress them until a more appropriate moment, nor am I able to control the volume at which I express them. If I were 7 years old you might think I have Tourrette's syndrome, but really I just don't have enough shame to control myself. Last night, boyfriend and I pulled up to a restaurant, parking adjacent to a large white van with jungle cat markings and the words "KIM'S WHITE TIGER" scrawled on the side in a pseudo-samurai style font. Unable to connect the van to its type of business (tae kwon do, apparently), I said loudly,

"When I'm really old, I'm going to refer to my snatch as the White Tiger, and it's going to attack hot young men."

Boyfriend's expression was worth it, but judging by the way people sitting outside the restaurant stared at me as we walked by, I was probably disarmingly vocal about the sentiment.

I almost wrote, just now, that this whole situation was fine because none of my peers or superiors were there to witness it. However, it occurs to me now that my boss has caught me doing things just as bizarre at work, like headbanging at my desk, dancing through other peoples' lab space, doing loud imitations of other people, and proclaiming my preference for drinking hard liquor straight from the bottle. But, I mean, he's a cool guy. I can only hope he doesn't include these traits on a recommendation letter in the future.

FML, part II

One of my big neuroses since I was small has been losing things. I remember at 3 years old leaving my Dewey Duck stuffed animal in the bathroom at DisneyWorld and never seeing it again. Another time, I left my cherished stuffed elephant in a booth at McDonalds on a road trip to the Ozarks and my poor parents turned the car around and drove an hour back to get it for me.

I normally don't leave things anymore. Every time I exit a public location I engage in a time-consuming ritual of pocket pat-downs, purse-rifling, and seat-checking to make sure everything I brought, down to the last lipgloss, is safely with me. That is why when I left my phone in a bar last night I was so shocked and appalled at myself that I am still not over it today.

The worst part about leaving my phone on the windowsill was not that I didn't realize it was gone until I got all the way home (I live 5 minutes away). It wasn't that my boyfriend had to drive me all the way back to the bar and come in with me to pick it up (he was extremely nice about it). It wasn't that I was so worried someone would steal it (Carrboro folk are very nice). The worst part, kids, was that the kind bartender found my phone and immediately tried to return it to me by calling the number I had labelled as "HOME," which wasn't my home at all but my parents' house in another state. To my horror, he was on the phone with my dad when I ran into the bar.

My parents already think I habitually lose things of value. This was not helpful. I guess I really should be eating my organic sea vegetables, or maybe I just shouldn't drink margaritas in public places.

F M er L

Embarrassment is fleeting. Ephemeral. The dissolution of your pride is forever. Last week I forgot my cell phone at home four critical and excruciating times (iPhones are addicting), leaving me without the ability to text/call/FourSquare/Twitter/Facebook/take pictures of hipsters. I almost left my home without a bra on (I'm not enough of a hippie to do that on purpose). I forgot to eat dinner twice and ate two dinners by accident once. I'm dizzy, I'm spacing out, and I'm losing my mind.

All of this was merely harmless bumblery until Sunday. I drove to the store to pick up some food for a friend's barbeque. My braking foot slacked off at a red light and my car glided into the rear of the car in front of me. There was no damage and we exchanged phone numbers before the light even turned green. Shaking, I pulled into the nearest parking lot and immediately jumped out of the car to see if I had scratched my car in the incident, slamming the driver side door behind me and locking myself out of the vehicle while it was still running.

My cell phone was locked in the car. I wandered into a Whole Foods and asked to use their courtesy phone. Because of 411's voice recognition software (WE MEET AGAIN, electronic woman...) it took me 30 minutes to simply obtain the number of Durham's AAA chapter ("You're looking for Triplay?" NO. What the hell is Triplay?). It then took 20 minutes for the woman on the phone to correctly spell my first and last name (no, just because it sounds eastern european doesn't mean it has no vowels). I also learned that just because you paid to be a member of AAA in 2001 doesn't mean you're a member anymore.

The worst part about locking your keys in your car while it's running is that you have to tell people about it to get help. I dealt with this by acknowledging the facts right up front. "Hi, AAA? I locked my keys in my car. It's running, and I'm a complete moron." "Okay, honey, are you in a safe place?" "I'm in a grocery store, but I'd feel much safer if I could crawl into a hole and die."

The best news is that when you lock your keys in a running vehicle, you get placed on Top Priority, even if you're not really a member of AAA. I sat on top of my car in the parking lot and mentally gave the finger to all of the people walking by and laughing to themselves about my predicament. "See that dumb lady? That's what happens to your brain if you don't eat your organic raw sea vegetables," the mothers told their children. My salvation came in a red pickup truck 10 minutes later and managed to unlock the door without making too many comments about how ridiculous I was. He didn't even charge me-- I'm telling myself it was because I'm so cute, but I think that AAA made a mix-up and told them I was a member. Bwahaha.

I didn't go to the barbeque. I went to another grocery store (I can never show my face in Whole Foods again) and bought 1/4 pound of chocolate covered ginger to stuff the sorrows down my esophagus. Let's remember what we learned from my experience:

1. Don't use the window locks on your car unless your keys are in your hand.
2. AAA memberships must be renewed.
3. People are nicer to you if you admit your idiocy upfront.
4. American cars are easier to break into than foreign.
5. If you think you're going to lock your keys in your car while it's running, make sure you have plenty of gas.

Random thought

All etymology aside, isn't it interesting how close the word contemporaries looks to contempt? And also, how the word "peers," when uttered in a particular sentiment, might sound like the word "pierce," as with a dagger? Not that this has anything to do with anything.

Just a thought

I have the notion that anything, anything, anything, no matter how innocent, can be creepy if you type it into Microsoft Notepad.

P.S.

The below posts make me sound like a rage-filled, negative little shit, which I often am (otherwise how would I write this blog?) but I'd like to clarify that my friends are more amazing, funny, cool, charming, unique, interesting, and talented than I could ever ask for, and my life is pretty sweeeeet -- because of them and in spite of interference from "normal" people. Whoopie!

I'm off to hang out with some of them now.

People... people who bore people

Maybe you get the impression, reading this blog, that I'm not exactly like most people you might run into on a daily basis. Maybe I'm a little more neurotic, more observant, more narcissistic, more loquacious, more cynical. Maybe I have a unique perspective or even put new words and a new voice to things you've thought yourself. Or MAYBE if you don't have a good vocabulary or any sense of imagination, you'd describe me as "weird."

I was called weird in grade school, middle school, and high school. Then somewhere along the line, most people grew out of whispering behind my back about my "weirdness," and I guess I took that for granted because apparently I have to deal with it again now.

My boyfriend and I were having coffee on campus when we ran into a younger student from our program that he knows. He introduced us and we both said hello to each other before parting ways. The next day he heard from this student that she heard from other people in her year that I am "weird." Considering that I haven't even had a conversation with these jerks, I'm sort of pissed off about it.

1. Who meets someone's girlfriend and immediately turns around and calls her weird? I tend to associate that caliber of social ineptitude with autistic spectrum disorders and children under ten.

2. The individuals who are apparently referring to me as weird have, as far as I know, interacted with me one time. They crashed a party I hosted in my apartment, stood in the middle of the living room ignoring the other guests and drinking my liquor, and stared at me like deaf mutes when I smiled and greeted them. I guess I'm the strange one in that situation, but it's strange relative to the norm of inexplicable rudeness.

Thus, what I understand about the label "weird" is that I am a distinguishable personality from the indistinct mass of mounded flesh and Walmart clothing that makes up this group of students. I shouldn't feel offended, right? I should feel complimented that I'm not a boring, bland, uninteresting plebeian Ph.D student. But I'm still pissed off. If you're reading this, you lackluster potato-faced redshirts, why don't you kiss my ass? It's not my fault you put so much effort into being average that you didn't have time to develop a personality.

What can brown do for you?

NOT MUCH.

I had the most annoying experience with UPS this week. I ordered some bedding from Urban Outfitters and had to pay $10 for shipping. Urban Outfitters accidentally (?) omitted my apartment number on the shipping label, so when the package was delivered, they had to take it straight to the building office and leave it for me. Whatever incompetent debile working there at the time told them that I had moved out of the apartment complex and not left a forwarding address.

This baffles me, since I've been living here for two years and stop into that office all the time and make small talk with those ladies. Anyway, UPS had to take the package back and it experienced something called an "exception," which essentially means they are confused and plan to take actions that will completely inconvenience the intended recipient.

Instead of calling the phone number that I had associated with the billing and shipping address when I placed the order, UPS decided to call my parents' house. This, too, confuses me, because I'm not sure how they got the phone number. They reached my father, who couldn't imagine why I would be ordering anything off the internet and assumed UPS was some sort of scam artist targeting me and trying to squeeze my address out of him. He told them they would have to call me. They told him that I had to call their help line.

UPS's help line has one of those automated voice-recognition navigation systems employing a frustratingly peaceful woman's voice. You can choose from options like "track a package" and "send a package" and "shipping information," all of which require you to clearly state numbers and letters and words in a clear manner such that a robot can decipher your speech. So imagine me sitting at my desk in lab, running an experiment next to whirling and whizzing pumps and electrical equipment, enunciating a random stream of 8 billion numbers and letters into my phone, trying to maintain the emotional vigor of Al Gore. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you." Aaaaaand repeat.

This help line helped me learn that my "package has experienced an exception," and could I please "pick it up within 5 days at the UPS facility." What UPS facility? The one in my town? A quick phone call there told me that they only sold shipping materials and did not handle packages. In order to talk to a person, I had to play the old "I'm too stupid to use a phone" trick and nod mutely at the phone until a representative from customer service came on the line. Her advice? "Just go to the UPS facility to pick it up." WHAT UPS FACILITY? "The one nearest you."

After I extracted an address from this clueless peon, Google informed me that it was a 20 minute drive from my apartment. An hour of telephone runaround and 20 minutes of driving later, I had my stupid pillowcases. Thanks for nothing, UPS!

Apiphobia

I feel like I have often written about my fear of bees and wasps on this blog. This will not deter me from writing about it again today.

Several months ago, I was having recurrent nightmares about bees, which was odd because it was the middle of winter, and my apian nightmares typically don't start until spring. In my dreams, I returned home to find my bedroom infested with so many bees that they covered the wall like wallpaper, teeming on my bed and books, and streaming out of a gaping hole in the wall where they must have made their nest. The humming surrounded me, droning and and out of focus as I was charged with the task of blocking up the nest entrance myself with a clumsy, melting block of clay. All of my nightmares ended with me running from the bees, unable to escape the incessant buzzing as a dense cloud of insects followed me into oblivion.

Every morning I awoke exhausted and confused as to why my apiphobia was emerging so early in the year.

One night I awoke unexpectedly in the middle of a bee nightmare, and the terrifying hum of insects still penetrated my bedroom. In a panic, I patted my bedding and shook my head in case there were bees crawling in it. No? Then what was this humming sound?

I realized very quickly that it was my new upstairs neighbor, who is apparently insane, vacuuming at 3am. WHO VACUUMS AT 3AM!? Every night!? Needless to say, I don't have very much affection for my new neighbor. Actually, I despise her and her red-eye vacuuming, schizophrenic plant care schedule, and seemingly normal and pleasant interactions with me when we occasionally run into each other on the walkway. Anybody who makes me dream of bees is my instant and permanent enemy.

Keep that in mind, Jerry Seinfeld.

How To Neglect Your Blog

Greetings, strangers. I am a bad, bad blogger. I offer you this posting as a pittance and excuse for my long, long, long, long, long, long absence: How to neglect your (beloved) blog in 5 easy and sometimes enjoyable steps.

1. Become embroiled in ridiculous personal drama.

I didn't want to be tempted to write about it on the blog, and yet it was all-encompassing in real life so I had a hard time thinking about other things to write. Because time has given me space from my hysterical perspective on the entire situation, I will summarize it for you now: I dated a guy. I became extremely interested in his friend. Guy #1 got angry and told all my peers about my extreme personal details, making me extremely angry. Following this, there was a dramatic vacillation between taking the high road and gritty, soul-gnashing revenge for several weeks (months...?) until awesomeness of Guy#2 made me realize Guy #1 is totally irrelevant.

2. Develop a personal life.

... And by personal life I mean, have friends and a boyfriend. It's lame to say that I neglected my blog because I got a boyfriend. Really lame. I apologize. I am not one of those girls who only has interests in things until I'm not single anymore, I swear. But in my defense, I've also been going to a lot (a LOT) of rock concerts. So I come back to you a more experienced Elyse.

3. Become interested in other things.

In this case, it's been documentaries on Netflix (which I honestly could have been writing about, but would you really want to read it?), eco-conscious living, and my cat. I got a cat! Her name is Free Tibet Glasseater Twisby. I'm not really a crazy cat lady, but I have to say that she might be the best cat in the entire world.

4. Graduate school.

Need I say more? It exhausts me.

5. Be a lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, quasi-literate 24 year old.

Let's cut the crap. I'm a lazy little bitch. I sit around all weekend and overdose on documentaries, coffee, and emotional post-documentary crying spells. My only defense of this is that the documentaries give me emotional perspective, and the coffee keeps me from sleeping 15 hours a day. Okay? Okay?

Do you forgive me!?

sorry for my absence...

... but I am home now. Home in the horrifically plain suburbs of Chicago, surrounded by white! White landscapes, people, elephant gifts, and minds. And you know how that gives me material. As a sappy, lame excuse for my inattention to this blog, I offer you a scrap of a google chat with a morsel of information about my personal life. It doubles as a sneak-preview of the evil holiday spirits and corporate bah-humbuggery soon to spew from this journal.

elyse: i hate hallmark because it is the mass-production and mass-marketing of everything in this world that is trite, boring, unartisan, and banal

elyse: because 1/4 of the items in the store that aren't about baby jesus, stuffed animals, and gem-studded troll dolls are about making the alcohol swigging habits of suburban biddies cutesy and pink

R: I like you :)

elyse: i like you :)

Isn't that disgusting? Aaaaaand I'm never mentioning my personal life again.

Quickies

1. Buses

Lately I've been in a dangerously bad mood in the mornings and it's been all I can do not to explode with rage every time I'm on the bus. Some guy will inevitably weasel his way into a seat that opens up right next to me every morning, forcing me to stand while 10 people squeeze past where I'm standing in the middle of the aisle. I have a new theory that the murderous ideations of serial killers are born on public transportation, and I dare you to defy me. Also, please don't give me dirty looks while we're across from each other on the bus. It's not my fault that you chose to put on that much eyeliner, lady.

2. Baby's First Car

Last weekend, I purchased my first car. Car shopping is a lot like clothes shopping except... the salespeople are usually fast-talking men, I fit into everything I looked at, and when I went home at the end of the day, I didn't hate my body. Now I'm broke so I won't go clothes shopping for awhile, which makes me sad... but I like my car. I'm trying to think of it as an accessory... like a really expensive, rapidly depreciating scarf.

3. Emotionally Unstable

In my life, a few men have referred to me as "emotionally unstable." This would bother me if I hadn't pieced together a few coincidental facts about these men:

1. They considered themselves to be very good looking and intelligent.
2. They were interested in me romantically.
3. I was not interested in them romantically.

Just throwing this out there, but maybe what's "emotionally unstable" about me is my unshakable opinion that they are undesirable mates. Also, who seems more emotionally unstable: me, or a guy who cries every day? That's what I thought.

4. Science

Science is like the big brother who sometimes lets you have the larger slice of pie for dessert, but then the next day he calls you fat and rubs your face in his dirty underwear. What a fickle, fickle world I work in.

I am the ONLY person who could slice her finger open and bleed profusely trying to BAKE COOKIES. I'm probably also the only clumsy, irresponsible cook who manages to have slip up with knives on a daily basis and can never remember to keep band-aids around. Every single finger on my left hand has bled this week. Last week, a paring-knife mishap caused me to slice between my thumbnail and finger (it hurt like a bitch) as well as behind my cuticle on my right ring finger. As a last point, if you have open cuts on every finger, don't squeeze limes with that hand. Maybe you'd have figured that out sooner than I did... I'm slow.

I should stick to yogurt. Nobody ever cut themselves trying to eat yogurt (except maybe on the foil lid... uh oh).

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Ladies, nobody in science is ever going to give you any respect. You're going to have to knee them in the groin, sucker punch, headlock, and choke hold them, kick them to the ground, beat them into unconsciousness with a heavy object, and take the respect you deserve from their limp, clammy hands. In an intellectual sense, of course... yes, of course...