Ordinary Words

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just Bitching

I've come to the conclusion that college is just an insane waste of money. Here we college students are, mostly teenagers and twenty-somethings...and probably half of us are having to pay for college on our own or with very little help. So, we pay tuition, which seems to go up in price after every semester. Then there's other random things to pay for, like parking tags and book rentals and activity fees and yadda yadda yadda. Then, we've gotta have all the necessary things for class...notebooks, binders, loose leaf paper, pencils, pens, calculators, scantrons, and on and on and on. Then, we've got the extra requirements from our professors, usually a book or a workbook or a CD or something. And then there's those poor, unfortunate souls that have to live on campus, which brings along all sorts of other glorious fees. And there's having food and drinks throughout your days on campus...and everything's just a wee bit more expensive on campus.

So what does our money go to? Things like funding sports programs that we won't be a part of, sporting events we won't attend, landscaping that only gets in our way as we trek across campus, and other useless shit that we wouldn't waste our money on if we actually had a choice in the matter. What would I spend my money on? Oh, how about some more parking spaces? Fuck the landscaping areas, those grassy little knolls can be turned to a couple of parking spots. Or, better yet, turn one of our parking lots into...gasp, get ready...a parking garage! Help accomodate all the students that would rather not have to leave two hours early for class just so they can get a fucking parking space.

But, there's really no point in bitching, right? I mean, I should be grateful that I'm able to go to college, right? Yeah! Just so I can end up with some useless degree that won't get me anywhere, except maybe working in a retail store, restaurant, or fast food joint for the rest of my life. Right on! That way when someone asks me what I'm doing with my degree in mass communications, I can say I put it to good use when asking customers, "Would you like fries with that?"

Begin Rant.

I don't know what it is, but I just can't trust people. Maybe I'm just paranoid or maybe I'm just an asshole...or maybe, just maybe, I have every right to be as untrusting as I am. A person can only get royally fucked over so many times in their life before they start to think that essentially all people will screw them. And boy, I've really been fucked over by some assholes in my lifetime. I don't want to be bitter, I don't want to carry this emotional baggage, but it's almost an involuntary thing for me these days. It's like second nature for me to be at least somewhat...or in most cases, completely...closed off toward people, simply because I know I'll be let down eventually anyway. Friends? They'll talk behind your back or betray you or completely disregard you eventually. Family? They'll cut you down or lecture you or make you feel as though you're nothing. Love interests? They'll break your heart or cheat on you or act like they're someone they're not. And that's just people that are in your life. Don't even get me started on the strangers that will kick you when you're down, steal your wallet, or blow your brains out.

End Rant.

Fuck Fuck Fuck

What a long motherfucking weekend it's been. Long days with even longer nights and not enough sleep to make me my normal self. And to make matters worse, classes start tomorrow. Fucking tomorrow. Where did the summer go? Grrr...so, you can definitely look forward to me whining about it over the course of the next couple of days. Because, yeah, as far as classes go...this will most likely be the worst semester ever. And yes, I'm being pessimistic...go fuck yourself if you don't like it.

Aw, fuck it, I'm going back to bed.

Club Antics

I'm certainly not, nor have I ever been, a club kid. They're a fun time every once in a while, but it's just not something I could handle on a nightly or even a weekly basis. Mostly, it's because I refuse to pay outrageous prices for cover charges and drinks, stand in long lines just to use the bathroom, and be viewed as a piece of meat by all the fags across the land. To some, it's fun...to me, not so much. So, when I do go out, it's for a very special occasion or it's smack dab in the middle of the week (so as to avoid the outrageous weekend cover charges). Last night, I went out...for the third time this year? Yeah, and it's August. And I finally got to see my very first drag show. It was entertaining, but my fear of drag queens kept me from really enjoying it all. In fact, one of the "performers" (with my sarcastic quotes because I hardly believe lip-synching while dressed as the opposite sex to be performing, but that's just me) came to the bar I was sitting at for a drink...so, I bolted for the balcony to have a smoke until she went backstage again. It is proper to use "she" when they're dressed as women, right? But, I will say this...the drag kings didn't scare me. Hell, most of them looked better than most of the guys in the bar...

...with a few exceptions, of course. The guy I rode with was definitely hot, but definitely not interested in little ole me. He was fun though...very funny, very talkative, and a very good dancer. Not that I was watching or anything. And, get this, I got hit on. Very rarely does this happen to me at a bar because I tend to come off as a bit of a wallflower, especially when I don't have any alcohol in my system. But, I guess some guys dig the anti-social boys...maybe because we seem so unattainable? If only they knew the reasoning for my anti-social behavior is simply that I'm shy and don't approach others in a crowded setting. Anyway, he chatted with me at the bar on two occasions while his friend bitched about someone spilling a drink on his new Prada shoes...then I bumped into him as I was heading for the door. That's when he asked for the digits...and I figured I'd give them to him since he was the only guy in the club who was really nice to me all night.

Speaking of, aren't bartenders supposed to be relatively nice to customers so that we have more incentive to tip them? I'm sitting at the bar, about to light my cigarette, and the bartender insists on lighting it with his faulty lighter. When I say he tried lighting my cigarette a hundred times, I'm not even kidding. Finally, he gave up and snidely said to me, "Well, it works for everyone else." What the fuck? Are you implying that there's something wrong with ME because YOUR lighter, which YOU are in control of, won't light MY cigarette? I didn't ask for your help in the first place, buddy...go get groped for an extra buck, asshole. Yikes, one night out at a club and I'm a bitter fag now...

So, back to where I was going before I got sidetracked, I gave the guy my number and I really didn't expect anything to come of it. Heh, wrong. I hadn't even been out of the bar for five minutes when my phone rang. Guess who? He called to make sure that I didn't give him the wrong number or that he didn't type it into his phone incorrectly. So, then I had to have an awkward conversation with someone I barely know...which can be fun, but not at 2 a.m. I found out, among a few other things, that he's from Connecticut...which I just realized is fun to spell with that silent C thing. And yeah, I am a huge dork, which I'm sure he probably realized after one conversation with me.

The scariest thing of all? I actually want to go out again soon.

Cravings

Okay, it's official...I would like to make mad, passionate love to Pete Yorn. And carry his children, as anatomically impossible as that may be. And have him sing me to sleep every night...

In the meantime, making love to my pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby will just have to do. I'll even make love to Ben & Jerry themselves, since they're absolutely the most brilliant men alive. Why? Because they are geniuses for making the combination of "fudge covered peanut butter filled pretzels in vanilla malt ice cream with fudge and peanut butter." That's the description right off the package, folks. We won't even describe the nutrition facts column right next to that description...

Did I mention how I want Pete Yorn?

Facelift

I finally broke down and gave this site a little bit of a makeover. Obviously, the layout is different...but there isn't anything very special about it. It's just one of those manufactured blogger templates...but it seems a lot more cheerful compared to the old layout. No wonder my journal got so depressing sometimes; that layout was terribly mood-altering. So anyway, here's the new look with some cleaned up links and without the comments that rarely got used. Enjoy, folks.

REPRESENT!

It's funny how things never really turn out the way you hoped they would. Being able to find the humor in an unfortunate situation is a quality I've done my best to acquire...and I think I've done pretty well in doing so. Case in point, my "grand prize." I realize that I really shouldn't bitch about a free trip and all...but damn, this was one of the most terrible vacations I've had in my lifetime. First of all, the night before we left for New York, I got a grand total of two hours of sleep. So, you can imagine that I was just a wee bit drained after a long flight...and then if you add the terror of a New York City cab ride to the mix, you've got one exhausted boy on your hands. Add to that the stress of having to deal with asshole bellhops and bitchy front desk clerks at a shitty-ass hotel...now you've got the recipe for one pissed off Southern boy suffering from jet lag and running off of two measly hours of sleep. Oh yeah, not good.

Then, how about a hotel room with a bathroom door that doesn't close, a breathtaking view of air conditioning units and a ledge full of nesting pidgeons, a bed with a tucked-in sheet instead of a fitted sheet, and the smell of a kitty litter box that hasn't been changed in weeks? Sounds wonderful, doesn't it? AND THEN, there's sightseeing in the rain, getting lost on the subway and ending up in Queens, having to threaten ghetto teenage girls with weave pulling if they don't stop cutting in line, getting washcloths from housekeeping after a 12-hour wait, zero visibility at the Empire State Building, lots of walking in the rain because umbrellas cost you an arm and a leg and a soul, and having to check out of your crummy hotel room at noon when your flight doesn't leave until 7 o'clock that night. Does any of this sound like fun??

Well, how about this then? Walking down the street as you sing the lyrics to Jenny From The Block, taking pictures in lewd poses with a shower cap on your head, torturing pigeons outside your window with shower caps that were cleverly made into water balloons, seeing a pretty kick-ass concert in Central Park, helping a bunch of teeny boppers flirt with some cute boy, pretending to be an emotionally abusive boyfriend, drinking soda and pop, making posters for Good Morning America and leaving them under the hotel mattress, PUMPKIN CENTER REPRESENT!, finding out Excedrin contains lots of caffeine, counting the number of taxis that come down the street below your window...

Wait, maybe I did actually have a decent time after all...

Unapologetic

I've had neither the time nor the energy nor the desire to update lately. And I'm a boring motherwatchyourmouth anyway...