Saturday, August 29, 2009

Will Work For Beer

There I stood, surrounded. I looked to the right; it was there. I looked to the left; it was there. An anonymous male walked by me, and then it was there. On my shirt. On my shoes. Suddenly in my hand. Suddenly in both hands. It was there.


There I remained standing. There I continued to look around me. They were everywhere. They were coming in. They were going out. They were right in front of me. They were in my peripheral vision. They were unavoidable.


I think we all know where one can find beer and polos uniting together into one, one big Polo-Beer-ConCOCKtion...

Frat Parties.

I'm finally growing up! I'm finally a woman! I finally know what it feels like to get hit on by a guy wearing an upside down visor! Natasha's First Frat Party. That's right, moments that will go down in history need to be capitalized. I would like to say it was "the first one of many more to come..." but now that I stop and think about it that is just not what I want to say at all.

It all started when a friend and I asked where the bathroom was.

"Second door to your right."

We open the door and start to walk in.

"Why are there urinals in the ladies' room?"

"Hello ladies..."


After seeing 4 dudes taking a piss, I spend the next hour listening to drunk girls talk my ear off.

Because they're drunk, you idiot.

Because they're trying to get in your pants, you idiot.


You predictable little fucker.

I soon regretted walking away from Drunk Girl #1 when I encountered Horny Asshole #457.

"Hey, do you have any gum?"

"I got somethin' better than gum..."

"Well I just want some gum."

"I'm telling you, I got somethin' even better than gum."
Look dude, I get it. You're talking about your penis. Big whoop. Judging by your height I would say it's more of a small whoop. Either way, I don't give a fuck.

"Yeah. Okay. Goodbye."
The worst thing about that is I see that guy EVERYWHERE now.

Then, all of a sudden, a group decision is made.



And everyone starts leaving. I follow. Though I don't usually support blindly following hoards of wasted under aged people carrying beers down a public street, I felt it was the college thing to do.

We finally get there.

"You can't come in we're full get out of here."



Good god.

Well. That's it. No girls wrestling in pudding. (That's on Monday.) No beer pong competitions. (That's on Tuesday.) No more frat parties for me...


Friday, August 28, 2009

Confessions Part I

These are my confessions.

If that statement made any of you think of Usher, do not be ashamed. (Even though that was back in the day and you're obviously living in the past because as far as I can tell Usher's 8-pack is 8-years-old and you need to seriously move on with your life and introduce yourself to a little thing called the NOW.) But don't be ashamed.

I've decided that the easiest way to confess these is to make a list. I have changed the names, but if you were a victim of any past-mean-for-no-reason-moments that I suffered from, you know who you are. And I am deeply sorry. That is why I have chosen to broadcast these moments via internet where everyone can read and feel bad for your sorry ass and then laugh at that same ass of yours that gets sorrier by the minute, instead of just calling you up and sincerely apologizing. Because it's just not as funny when you actually mean it.

Now, before you read this, please keep in mind that I am a different person now. All of the confessions you are about to read happened in either 7th or 8th grade. These were the middle school days, the days before heartbreak and insecurity and Pre-Calculus. These were the happy days, the days you could get away with being a bitch. If you think carefully, this was around the time that the movie, "Mean Girls" came out. I was an easily influenced 14-year-old who thought Lindsay Lohan was the shit. I now realize that she has serious problems. And giant breasts on a little body.

1. Betty, I am sorry.
I am sorry for hanging out with you everyday for 2 years straight and then randomly deciding one day to tell about 12 or 13 people that the reason you were out of school with mono is because you were a lesbian. I am sorry that the 12 or 13 people I decided to tell this to were on the other side of the cafeteria when I told them. I did not know other people would hear me when I screamed it. The thought never occurred to me. I am sorry.

2. Tanya, I am sorry.
I am sorry for telling everyone that the reason you were out with mono is because you made out with Betty because you, too, were a lesbian. I do realize that I didn't even know you at the time; I just knew you had mono. I am sorry.

3. James, I am sorry.
I am sorry for walking with you that one day after Art class. I did not know you were going to ask me to be your girlfriend. I also did not know that my immediate reaction would be to start laughing in your face. I did not mean to laugh in your face. I also did not mean to continue to laugh for the next 4 minutes as you patiently waited for me to stop laughing. I am sorry that I never did stop laughing. I laugh when I'm nervous. I am sorry you eventually walked away before I stopped laughing and got a chance to say, "No." I am sorry.

4. Nicholas, I am sorry.
I am sorry that the first time we slow danced I wouldn't look at your face. I am sorry that when you asked me to please look at your face I said no. I am sorry that by keeping my head down the entire time we slow danced it seemed like I was choosing to look at your crotch instead of your face. These were not my intentions. Your crotch had not even crossed my mind. I just felt awkward looking at your face. I am sorry that I told you I felt awkward looking at your face. I am sorry.

5. Cole, I am sorry.
I am sorry that I put a bunch of bath beads in a Ziploc bag and asked you if you wanted to try this new type of fruit snack my mom got. I'm sorry you started gagging and foaming at the mouth. I'm sorry.

6. Miles, I am sorry.
I am sorry that I ever asked you to be my boyfriend. I am sorry that I tried to take matters into my own hands instead of waiting around for fucking EVER for you to ask me out when I knew you liked me back, and so I called you up and asked you myself. I'm sorry I'm impatient like that. I'm sorry that you said yes only to pretend the very next day that the conversation had never happened. I'm sorry that I got all dressed up for school the next day and walked up to you and said 'hey!' only for you to walk away and then deny being my boyfriend while I told everyone how excited I was to finally be your girlfriend. I'm sorry you're a little fucker who's gonna burn in hell for what you did to me, you sack of shit. I'm very, very sorry.

7. Natasha, I am sorry.
I'm sorry you were a TOTAL BITCH. I'm sorry.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Close Encounters of the Creeper Kind

Who knew? People come to college and they become party animals, dancing on tables and wearing outfits that make you feel uncomfortable talking to them, because no matter how hard you try not to look, all you can fucking do is look. In your head you're thinking, "Don't look don't look don't look focus focus focus hold eye contact just keep the eye contact SHIT I LOOKED okay focus focus SHIT I LOOKED AGAIN eye contact eye contact eye contact SHIT remain calm SHIT listen to what she's saying SHIT okay just count to ten one two three four PULL UP YOUR FUCKING DRESS YOU SLUT." And then they think you're a lesbian. And if you're a guy they're just thinking you're a guy. It's not fair.

Or, you become the buckle-down-study-addict, locking yourself up in your room and making love to your textbooks with the unconscious desire to make your teacher have wet dreams about you and the conscious desire to show your parents they were wrong about you flunking out, while also learning the importance of polynomials and the Alabama paradox, since, you know, THAT'LL get you laid. You ditch the contacts and grab the glasses; pajama pants become the norm, and, sure, you'll graduate with a high-paying job and a clean conscience, but what stories will you have to tell your children when they go off to college?

"Well, when I was in college, I'd chug 8 Red Bulls then sit in the library till TWO IN THE MORNING and just study. It was so crazy. Like, this one time I was on this studying high, like I felt high from reading so many words for so many hours, and I was sitting there, by myself, studying, and while I was thinking about studying, I wondered, 'How long could I study for? Could I push my limits and stay here all night? Could I do it? What would happen if I did? Would I hallucinate from lack of sleep? What would happen if I broke the world record for consecutive hours of studying?' So I was in the library, till like---"


It's just embarrassing.

But while I can put myself in neither of these categories, since I have not once been to the library and have not once passed out drunk, I have found that I have discovered a new aspect to my personality, one that I would not have ever found if it were not for college life.

I am a creeper.

Now, by "creeper," I do not mean that I follow people and fiddle with my pants or the contents inside. By "creeper," I mean more often than not I sit on my balcony looking at people. Just watch. Just stare. Just creep. Yes, I will admit to having sudden urges to chuck things at their faces; yes, I will admit that I get intense impulses to shout out profound obscenities; yes, I will admit that an average of about 17 times someone has waved at me from below, causing me to leap up out of pure joy screaming, "HEY!" only to realize they were greeting the people who live below me who are also always on their balcony, fellow creepers of my kind. But us creepers cannot join together, that's the problem with creeping. It is not a social gathering; it is not something one can openly discuss. Creeping comes from within, and it can be a competitive hobby at that.

I nonchalantly say from my balcony to the passerby below.

"Hello hello."
Fellow Creeper from below me thinks that by saying what I just said but doubling it in number, he is creeping in a more advanced fashion than I, when really he is just mooching off of my CreepEE.

"I saw him FIRST, you douche!"
The benefit of having the balcony above Fellow Creeper is that he cannot see me as I call him a douche.

"Well I've been creeping on him for the past THREE HOURS, you Creepabee!"
"Creepabee" is slang for "creeper wannabe." It's a creeper thing, you wouldn't get it.

"Wait! Here comes another victim!"











The creeping never ends. That's what is so addicting about it. There's never an "off day" in the occupation of Creeping. Though some are better at it than others (practice does in fact make perfect), anyone can do it. All you need are a few simple things:

1. eyeballs
This is for beginners. Once you become intermediate to advanced, you may resort to binoculars.

2. vocal chords
The longer you creep, the more bored you become with a simple shout-out. Try mixing up the volume of your voice, or maybe even the tone. If you are able, you may even try different accents or dialects. For example, "Top of the morning to ya, lassie!" or "Hakuna Matata!"

3. a middle finger
Not everyone enjoys being creeped on, shouted at, or stared down. In case you come across these, shall we say, "normal" ladies and/or gents (that's right, you can creep two, three, maybe even four at a time!), you may need to resort to your center phalangee, since throwing things at people may cause harm or your own personal court case. Therefore, just violently extend your middle finger in a thrustful manner, and voila! Anger is gone and you look even more like a creeper!

Do not judge me until you've tried it. Everyone creeps, I'm just admitting to it. Hitchcock obviously had thoughts about it, he just hired James Stewart to do it for him. Look, I can't help it if my creeping can't be justified because I happen to see a man murdering someone and then I become a hero and my creeping is forgotten. Not everyone is as lucky in their creeping. All I'm saying is, to creep or not to creep? It's not even a question. To creep is obviously the way to go.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Me, Myself, and I Think My Roommates Hate Me

Roommates. Oh, what joyous things they are. Those roommates. Whom I love. Lovelovelovelovelove.

Now, you may think I'm being sarcastic. I do not admit to such a thing. I will let you interpret the repetition of the L-word in your own way. But, do not expect me to blog about my roommates. I owe them their privacy, and apparently I also owe them a good sink scrub.

So, now that I've found myself in this unlikely debacle (since when do I give a shit who I blog about?), I've decided to put myself on their end of the stick. What would it be like to room with Natasha...

"My new roommate is a fucking freak. ALL she wears is black. I'm serious. That's it. Look in her closet. The entire thing is black. Black. On black. On black. You can't even tell there are clothes in there; it just looks like an empty closet. Her bed sheets are black. Her towels are black. Her fingernails are black. So, you'd think she's be all "dark and emo", ya know? But then, you look at all the movies she brought, and it's like, "Austin Powers," and "Ace Ventura" and "Powerpuff Girls Season One." What gothic wannabe watches "Coneheads?" And she walks around with her iPod and dances. Like, she was making coffee, and dancing while she did it. She spun over to the trash can and back. Then dropped her iPod. And started laughing. To herself. Like a psycho. And she brought, like fifteen of all these little tiny dolls with adjustable heads of like, Dracula and Frankenstein and shit. And she faces them towards her bed, like, what? If I woke up in the middle of the night and a 3-inch Wolfman was looking at me I'd piss my pants. Oh! And then, when she was unpacking, she, like, took out these bottles of pills. And so I'm thinking...okay, that's weird...and she goes, "I'm an insomniac. Don't be freaked out if I'm like sitting in the living room in the middle of the night; I do that. I won't turn on the TV or the lights or anything." What the fuck! I don't want to wake up at 2am to get a drink and there's my roommate sitting in there! In the dark! Staring into space! CREEPY SHIT, MAN! Oh god and then, we go grocery shopping, right? And we all decide to split the cost. And she's like, "Yeah yeah yeah," but then when we all get a cart, she's like, "I'm just gonna get my own food," and we're like, "I thought we were splitting the cost..." and she's like, "Well...I eat weird food." So I'm like..."Like, what?" I mean come ON! "Weird food?" What does that even mean! And she goes, "Uhhh...bags of cheese." and then runs off with her cart. At first I thought she was just making that up so she could be cheap then mooch off of our shit, but then she comes back and her cart has SIX bags of shredded cheese in it, and that's it. There wasn't even variety; it was all mozzarella. ALL OF IT. Then she randomly gets a thing of orange Tic-Tacs. Okay, and another thing, she's always on the balcony. She's never inside. Yesterday I went out there, and she is LYING DOWN on our balcony with a pillow. It's like, wouldn't that be more comfortable in bed? Where your pillow is supposed to go? I mean she's lying on SOLID CONCRETE. And like, people will pass by on the sidewalk and look up at her and she'll be like, "HEY!" and scare the shit out of them, but then whenever the 4 guys who live next door to us come up and say hi to her, she looks at them, grabs her pillow, and walks inside. She doesn't say one word to them. Like, what? RUDE, THAT'S WHAT. And! She goes on and on about how retarded frat boys are and how she hates them and how all guys are horny bastards then at night she's like, "Bye! Going to a frat party!" Hypocrite! She never cleans her dishes, she throws her clothes all over her floor, and yesterday she was supposed to clean the bathroom and all I saw her do was grab a 4-pack of toilet paper and throw it through the door. She didn't open it, she didn't put a roll on the holder-thingy, she just chucks the whole thing in there. It landed in the bathtub. And no, she didn't go pick it up. She just laughed to herself IN THAT CREEPY FUCKIN WAY SHE DID BEFORE and walks off. Like, thanks for helping out, FREAK! I'm telling you, she's a fuckin' weirdo."

Of course, that's just my humble opinion. I'm lucky enough to have roommates who keep all comments about one another to themselves. Because I'm sure there are many.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Natasha Balboa

"Have you ever been in a fight?"

"Like...a physical fight?"

"Yeah, man, like, have you ever just beat the shit outta someone?!"

"Of course not! Girls don't do that kinda stuff."


"Yes, Natasha?"

"I have been in a fight."


"I said, I have been in a fight."









"Yes to the no?"


"So yes?"


Second grade. A time of kickball, a time of pencil grips, a time I'll always remember. I remember the boy who told me he didn't need to eat food because he could just "imagine" the taste in his mouth, and then later that day I caught him stealing my fruit snacks. Those snacks of mine. I remember the Barbie catalog I bought and how I ripped out each page and sold them separately for 50 cents each. That entrepreneurship of mine. I remember how I went in to get a trim and the barber got all my hair off. That afro of mine. But above all, I remember the day I got in my first and only fight. That right hook of mine.

In order to fully understand how I became Natasha Balboa, you need to know a few things.

1. I was the ring leader of an organizational program that consisted of boys racing each other and me giving the winner a giant piece of bubblegum.
2. I was sexist.
3. I was the shit.

Number Three is not really relevant to the story; I just like to reminisce from time to time on my golden years. The years I reached before I even was in the fuckin' double digits.

I held the races at recess. It was a great way to boss people around, yell GO, watch boys run, and then seductively hand a sexy steed with speed some candy. I was in charge: The Boss, The Man, The Don Corleon. Then one day, I had better shit to do. So, I decided to hand over my spats and call it a day. This girl Maria wanted to do it.

Remember Number Two?

Look, all I did was tell the bitch no and told some guy named Danny that he was in charge and walked away. That's it. Simple, to the point, sexist. That's how I rolled. Seriously. It went just like that.


Sure, I may of said something along the lines of:

"You're not cool you have no friends I don't even like you as a person cause you suck get out of my face goodbye."

But she didn't have to yell at me.


...whatever the fuck that means.

The next thing I know my teacher is calling my name. And then I see Maria, standing by my teacher, crying. Crying. Good god. I mean look, not everyone is going to like you. That's something you should of learned in fuckin' first grade. That was AN ENTIRE YEAR ago. Get over it.

"Natasha, you need to apologize right NOW."

It's not my fault the bitch wants to be me. No one can be me. No one knows where to buy giant pieces of bubblegum other THAN me, you twat.

"I'm sorry."

"Tell her WHY you're sorry."

Why do teachers do this? Take everything by steps? First I just had to say sorry, now I have to say why I'm sorry, next I'll have to bend down and kiss her ass. How about you just tell me right from the start what it is you're going to force me to do so I can do it all at the same time and then get the fuck out of here?

"I'm sorry I wouldn't let you hold the races."

Cause they're MY races, you fucker.

"Noooooooooooooo...tell her the OTHER reason you're sorry."

And that's another thing. Why do teachers take 90 seconds to pronounce their vowels? Are you trying to speak to me like I'm retarded? Because as far as I'm concerned you're the one who sounds like a retard.

"I don't know what else there is..."

"You made fun of her name."

"No I didn't."

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeees....Maria told me everything you said about her name."

"I didn't make fun of her name!"

"Natasha, if you don't apologize right now I'm going to call your parents and you won't get recess time."

Well fuck.

"I'm sorry I made fun of your name."


"Okay, now go play."

Go play with YOURSELF, you whore.

Though I was, in fact, a seven-year-old bad ass, I still had a conscience. Sure, the bitch lied, but the thing about me telling her she had no friends that I briefly mentioned earlier might not have been necessary on my part. So, being the little angel that I was, I went up to her all on my own to apologize on my own. (Don't you hate it when people MAKE you apologize? And then when you do, they're suddenly not mad anymore? It's like, did that really satisfy you? Obviously I'm NOT sorry, I didn't apologize until you said, "I'll ground you if you don't say you're sorry." I mean come on, common sense, people.)

"Maria, I really am sorry."

"Fight. Tomorrow. Behind the choo-choo."

I spent the next day sending around a list of Who's Gonna Win Natasha or Maria and oiling up my guns. I get to the choo-choo around noon; it's quiet...desolate...a tumbleweed floats by and I can hear a harmonica in the distance. Maria shows up with a few girls behind her. Then more people start to arrive. They're all here to see it: Round 15.

We're standing face to face. We inch closer. And closer. And closer. We never break eye contact. It's fuckin' awesome. I grab her shoulders, she grabs my shoulders. I push her shoulders, she pushes my shoulders. There we stand, in a full-fledged fight, and after 4 and a half solid seconds of me totally beating her ass down my teacher pops out of nowhere and breaks it up. Just in time, thank god. Maria could've really gotten hurt if that fight had lasted a full 5 seconds. All I gotta say is she's lucky to still be alive.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Fuck My Life 101

Have you ever been in a situation where all you're thinking is:


NO, this can't be happening, NO, this is not my life, NO, I do not want to try your free samples. Or maybe you add your own personal flair, such as, "Hell NO, oh NO, god NO, or maybe it's more like that one Oldies song where they just sing "no" over and over again? Like, "no no, no, no no, no no no no no no!" If anyone knows what the hell I'm talking about. Well, this was exactly what was running through my mind my first day of classes.

First Class: Fuck My Life 101

More commonly known as Math, I already knew this was going to suck. All I could think about were Math classes of my past.

7th grade: We would say the pledge of allegiance at the beginning of every class. I, having had ice cream for breakfast that day, said the pledge very quickly and then sat down. Yes, I sat down while everyone else was still saying the pledge. Look, it's not a big deal. I said it, didn't I? Really, if you think about it, it means I obviously love my country more for being that eager to pledge to it. But not according to my teacher. She looks over, sees me, looks back, does a double take, and that's when all hell broke loose. I'll never forget the day I was yelled at for finishing the pledge before my peers. Oh and by the way, Mrs. Fuckwad, standing for the pledge isn't even required anymore. So go stick a #2 pencil up your #2 passageway you bitch.

I chose this particular Math class because the professor's name is Boris. How. Awesome. Is That. It never actually crossed my mind that Boris is a foreign name and therefore might entail that the professor might be foreign, as well, meaning he could in fact have a foreign accent, meaning he might have an accent that my cute little American eardrums wouldn't be able to comprehend.

Not being able to understand the subject material AND the teacher supplying it is what I call TOTAL SUCKAGE OF MY YOUTH. Moving on.

Second Class: I Wouldn't Know Because I Never Found The Damn Building 101

It's not my fault. I have bad eyes.

Third Class: Old People Everywhere 101

Night class. Great for me! Insomniac! Woo fuckin' hoo! I walk in. BAM! Old person. BAM! Old person. BAM! BAM! BAM! They're everywhere, man! This is Spanish class, not Knee Surgery class. Okay, they weren't that old. But if you're sitting there telling me all about your two teenage boys and referring to yourself as 'Ol' Momma' then you qualify in my mind. I'm here to learn ESPANOL, not hear you speak to me about how you're too old to learn a new language. Believe me, I already know. And what is it with old people and touching me? Touching everyone? Touching little boys? I DON'T KNOW! All I do know is that every 8 minutes my knee was being touched. Touch your own knees, grandma! Tell me what the weather forecast for Wednesday while you're at it! And quit saying HO-LA. It's pronounced Ola. The H is silent, Miss Daisy. LIKE HOW I WISH YOU WERE.

Ah, what a great first day! I'm in college now! Who cares if I don't show up to class! Who cares if my knees have been sexually harassed! Who cares if my youth has been sucked by a Russian man! Who cares if I don't know what the hell I'm doing! As long as you read about it, I'm here to write about it.