Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Not-so-fun fact: When I was in seventh grade, I wrote a novel. Well, seven chapters of a novel. Due to the reverse culture shock of returning to home life from college life, I will be attempting to salvage any potential from those thirty-some pages and generate something from it. Maybe. I will also try to make money on the side and maintain some of the sparse intellect I absorbed from the clever collegiate folks that used to surround me.
Can you tell it's been an awkward transition?
My parents never seemed big on the home video thing, but my sister and I came across a single VHS worth mentioning. Spoiler: it includes a fairy, a lot of breathy, high-pitched singing, and no pants. (No, it is not Britney Spears. It's also not one of those wanna-be feature films by whoever owns Barbie.)
While my little brother was being born, my sisters and I decided to make a surprise homecoming video for my mom when she came back from the hospital. So, naturally, we acted out "Little Bunny Foo Foo." Because, really, what could be more appropriate than an anti-climactic, moral-free children's rhyme about rodents bopping one another on the head?
(Side note: The really concerning thing about "Little Bunny Foo Foo" is that the Good Fairy is reprimanding a rabbit for hitting a mouse. She obviously has her priorities in order. Bring on the nukes, gulp down your Big Macs, and attack one another with religion...but for the love of all things bright and beautiful, do NOT bop those field mice on the head.)
It's a good thing home videos usually stay within the home, because I, as narrator and director of the production, also claimed to have written "Little Bunny Foo Foo." If that claim were to reach the public, there would be two major repercussions:
1) I might get sued or made to pay a massive fine or something. Well, if we sold the home video for a profit. And now that I think about it, there's some potential there.
2) I would never be respected as a writer, in any way, for the remainder of eternity. Not that there's really a chance for me anyway.
So I think I'll leave "Little Bunny Foo Foo" in the basement to gather some more dust.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Then, I went ahead and turned it into a majestic waterfall. Because graphs are boring.
Feel free to ignore the lapse in appropriate proportions between the bear and the fish.
In conclusion, it should be very apparent that blogging has become a last resort when all other opportunities to procrastinate/waste time have been entirely exhausted. (Exhibit A: this post.)
It's a list day.
Things I would never (emotionally) regret having on tap in my room:
1) Raspberry Arizona Iced Tea
2) Costco's VitaRain (all four flavors)
4) Ramen Noodles (Chicken flavor. I don't care who you are, the beef stuff is nasty.)
Things that are only okay to do in public when you are the gym:
1) Run maniacally in place
2) Sweat profusely
3) Look at your stomach in the mirror
4) Grunt with exertion
5) Wear spandex body suits
Things that I should never have discovered, but love anyway:
1) The internet, in general
2) Ramen noodles
4) Microsoft Paint
Dance moves that are always/never appropriate:
1) The vague crump
2) Pelvic thrusts
3) Indiscriminate air punches with occasional kicks
5) Fist pump (This is NOT the same as # 3.)
This has been a disappointing post, especially after neglecting you all for such a long while. Oh...wait...yup, I'm over it.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
College is full of emotions. To list a handful:
5) BOUNDLESS LOVE FOR ONE'S ALMA MATER.
But I have reached the conclusion that there is one collegiate experience that is more emotionally, physically, and mentally trying than any other...
...and that is: changing the sheets on one's lofted bed.
Stop your scoffing. This is a serious time. Like Valentimes.
(Side note: Happy belated Valentine's Day! I want you to know that you were/are my valentine(s). No pressure. http://homestarrunner.com/tgs12.html)
First, let's look at the pros and cons of a lofted bed in a college dorm.
-- More floor space
-- Potential to have a slide going from your bed to the ground
-- Being closer to the sky
-- You can't hop out of bed in the morning like you did when you were six years old. Well, you can, but you shouldn't.
-- You cannot avoid hitting your head/elbows/knees on the ceiling. This should never be a problem for anyone in the natural world.
-- The ladder rungs are an unexpected distance apart (EVERY TIME) so you end up dangling by your arms while your feet flail around in search of a solid surface.
(Side note: Maybe I should have added upper arm strength building to the pros...)
-- CHANGING YOUR SHEETS BECOMES AN OLYMPIAN FEAT.
I don't know a single person in the world who enjoys changing their sheets. But when your sheets must be changed from six feet off the floor, even a minuscule ounce of masochistic sheet-swappin' glory is flattened and mangled beyond recognition.
Here is the process:
1) Remove used sheets.
This should be the easy part. The problem is, not only are you removing the sheets, but you also have to clear off your pillows, comforter, extra blankets, and sock monkey. So your nest-building supplies get scattered all over the room and you have to face life on the ceiling without them for the next half-hour. Terrifying.
2) Place fitted sheet.
Okay, time out. Who in the name of all that is good and holy decided that putting elastic around a small, inflexible bed sheet would ever be a good idea? It's like sticking bubble gum to a sidewalk and expecting the concrete to become a trampoline. Nothing about it makes sense. If it did make sense, there would be no need for these:
"Fitted bed sheet grippers." It's like building a house around your house to protect it from the elements. It's like buying insurance to cover the cost of buying insurance.
a) Tuck corners of fitted sheet around corners of mattress.
In other words, tuck two corners into the bed frame at one end of the bed, then accidentally yank them back out again as soon as you crawl to the other end of the mattress, with your back scraping the ceiling the entire time. Repeat, but going the other way. Repeat again.
b) Crawl down to the floor in order to pull the sides of the fitted sheet around the mattress from underneath.
No, this is not easier because you have a loft bed. This is a headache. You climb up and down over and over again, because the sheet is only just big enough to cover the surface of your mattress pad, minus one inch. This step becomes a battle between the sturdiness of the sheet and your willpower. Note: the sheet will always win.
3) Do everything you just did with the fitted sheet, but this time with another sheet that doesn't have the elastic. Thank goodness.
This is still frustrating. At this point, you're climbing up and down, floor to ceiling, ceiling to floor, and muttering things like "It's over when I say it's over, you cloth fiend" and "That's right, take that, you mass-produced son of a t-shirt."
4) Now, add the comforter and duvet cover.
Now you realize that, over the course of the last half-semester, your comforter has once again managed to wriggle its way out of its cover. You have to fling both all over the place--knocking over picture frames, lamps, and passerby--in order to get all the corners to line up. Then, it takes three tries (and a knocked-over garbage can) to toss it up onto the lofted bed in a manner that is to your liking.
You think you're done now. The thing is, you'll wake up in the middle of the night, with your clean new sheets engirdling your arms and legs, because they really are too small for your bed.
(Side note: Why? Why so tight? (That's what she said? He said? Sorry. I had to say it.) I don't buy clothes like that. I would be uncomfortable. A tight shirt with elastic lining would look and feel really awkward, and would probably ride up my midsection all day long. What a sad day that would be. Poor mattress.)
Well, that's really all I have on that subject. And I think Tyson's fishbowl is warm enough for him now. Duty calls. (It doesn't, really. Phone calls. Cat calls. Duty doesn't have anyone to call. It's late at night and I'm too tired to think? Never. Always. What? Yes.)
See you around! Or, you know...not.
Monday, January 31, 2011
My 202 prof is definitely a more radical version of Professor Binns. Yes, that Binns. Harry Potter's ghost history teacher. He's who Binns would be if Binns charged his hair with static electricity, changed into jeans, and started making his students take turns saying the word "summer."
(Side note: Can ghosts change their clothes? I will look into that. Oh...survey says "no." Sorry, Prof Binns. At least you can spend your laundromat money on butterbeer.)
Speaking of the laundromat...sometimes I do laundry just because I miss the smell of it. I crave the smell of fabric softener the way I would normally crave chocolate or PBS Kids. Perhaps I am destined to be a laundress. Oh, wait. Reality check. I'm a feminist.
(Side note: "I don't want to be a laundress; I want to be famous!" Anyone? Name that movie. First person to get it right...gets...a shout-out in my next post.)
(Side note the second: That's a terrible prize. Fine, you request a prize. One that can be fulfilled anonymously from within the confines of this blog. Good luck.)
(Side note the third: Now no one wants to identify that quote. It would take longer to think up a prize.)
Recent obsession: 8tracks. I want to make a playlist consisting of all the songs I listen to on the way to class that make me feel like I could conquer the world and all of its problems. And I think I will call this playlist..."All the Songs I Listen to On the Way to Class That Make Me Feel Like I Could Conquer the World and All of Its Problems."
Boom. Did you hear that? It was the sound of dynamite.
(Side note: Not really, though. I really don't want the Patriot Act to come hammering on my door at all hours of the night.)
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I watched "The Social Network" twice in the last week. Now, whenever I'm blogging, I feel like I should have curly hair, sandals, a bad attitude, and genius programming skills.
(Side note: I don't have a single one of those. Not even sandals. And definitely not skills.)
Speaking of skills, I just realized that "latent" is an anagram for "talent." So...perhaps...we all have a handful of latent talents that could make us rich and famous someday. Maybe I can tame lions or juggle toddlers or something.
(Side note: Why is my concept of cool talents limited to circus tricks? There is some hidden meaning here.)
Today in my ethnomusicology class—yeah, it's for real—one of the topics we discussed is music's role in identifying people in/and society. And…this stuff might sound obvious to some people, but when you really think about it…it’s kind of mind-blowing material. And, no, I am not talking about this to sound pretentious. It's just kind of fascinating.
Music = You know. Just…yes. You know.
Self = Body +Total Set of Habits.
Identity = Partial selection of habits.
Now that we have that covered, we can move into
Music reflects who you are. You can look through someone’s music and make a few educated guesses as to who they are and how they operate. Music is something genuine that you can’t really fake. If you load up your iPod with your fave jams, you really are projecting your personality into a concrete representation.
Music is…flypaper. Or something. Music is not only meaningful because we like the lyrics, the beat, or the adorable guitar player. We attach memories and personal experiences to different songs/albums/artists. (Although adorable guitarists don’t hurt.) Seriously, though. I listen to stuff we played in concert band last year and can’t help but remember the experience of making music with my best friends. Which contributes to how much I still love it.
(Side note: Yup. That was really corny.)
Music links directly to emotion. Music is similar to language in many ways—one way being that we give meaning to language/music just as language/music gives meaning to us/what we do/say/feel.
(Side note: Lots/of/backslash/mark/things/get/annoying.)
When you exercise, you listen to pumpin’ club jams because you’re more likely to run faster/work harder. (Or Duke Ellington…but that could just be me.) When you’re walking home after a deep conversation with a buddy, you’re more likely to listen to something subdued/meaningful because it’ll fuel thought. On the other hand, if something subdued comes up on shuffle while you’re on the treadmill, your workout is going to take a hit. If you listen to previously mentioned “pumpin’ club jams” on your way back from your friend’s, you’ll probably get home in half the usual time.
Is this making any sense? I’ve been rambling for way too long. Quite honestly, I don’t know why you’d still be reading at this point.
I don’t understand those asthma commercials that ask us to get rid of the threats to asthmatics. What, am I supposed to throw out all my goose-down pillows and personally ban dust from the natural world? Not to be insensitive or anything.
I need more Sara Bareilles in my life. Maybe she's free for lunch tomorrow.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Even fish yawns are contagious.
Despite the anonymity of this blog, I am going to take a moment to respond to my own Facebook status...as promised.
(Side note: I am a painfully accurate example of my generation. Responding to Facebook via blog. As if anyone cares that much about what I'm thinking. But anyway.)
For one of my classes, we had to describe five artistic experiences that are meaningful to us. So, naturally, I wrote about the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. It was life-changing. Here's the brief little paragraph about HP world. Yes, I hammed it up. Which is completely appropriate for the occasion.
(Side note: Yes, I pretentiously quoted myself in my own post. Except it wasn't for the sake of being pretentious. It was so you'd realize that I do not talk like this.)
"In a world that frequently oscillates between reality and make-believe, the Wizarding World of Harry Potter finally manages to satisfactorily combine the two. There is no debate as to whether or not Harry Potter world is art. The intricacies in the architecture, the flawless timing of the theatrical interruptions, the subtle tones of Hedwig's theme providing a backdrop for Muggle conversation--every wizarding motif present in Hogsmeade brought awe, exuberance, and nostalgia to the hearts of every witch, wizard, Muggle, and Squib."
(Editor's note: Harry Potter is not make-believe. I know this. I just don't think my professor would understand that he's been charmed into believing magic is only found in books. I'd rather not live out the rest of my life in a straitjacket. Not that I don't respect that lifestyle. I'm digging myself into a pretty deep hole, here. That's what she said. Forget it.)
Granted, it's only three sentences--and not very good ones, at that--but I think Disney might have to pay me a few royalties for the increased attendance in HP world. Either that, or they'll sue me for scaring everyone away.
Right-o, back to reality. Or...another reality, rather.