Friday, October 26, 2012

Human Scratch and Sniffs

I'm running late so I'm walking fast. Actually, I'm not "running late" - I am late. Is there a difference? And why is the phrase "running late?" Because we all know that when we're late, we're tempted to run in order to get there as soon as possible, but we never do. We know that kid who does. That kid who is running. And checking his watch. And his feet are hitting the pavement so hard with each thump of his gallop that his backpack is bouncing up and down. Man, we think, if I ran like that kid, I'd probably make it there on time. But you know what we do instead of running along with him?

We point. And we laugh. Because he's running. And that's retarded.

My pace is almost a jog, though. My speed is jog-like, but my knees remain parallel with my legs. We'll call this a pog. I'm pogging to class.


Suddenly this kid leaps out in front of me, halting my pog and blocking my path.


Wait, do I know this person?

"You smell like apples!"
He has taken the liberty to lean into the air between my neck and my shoulder. And he is sniffing me. The guy. Is SNIFFING me.

" I?"
Alright, so I knew I didn't smell like apples. But since he seemed to think so, I wasn't going to convince him otherwise. Look, I'm not above a good lie here and there, especially when it comes to aroma. If you were known to smell like dirty socks and cigarette smoke, and someone told you that you smelled like fruit, would you correct them?

"Wow, you smell good!"

"Actually, I don't."

"No, no, I'm sure it's you. I can smell it."

"Nope, not me."

"Is that Kinky-Kiwi you're wearing?"

"I don't wear perfume."

"Then it must be your shampoo."

"I didn't wash my hair this morning."

"Then what is that great smell? Is that your lotion?"

"No, it's that girl over there. She just sprayed some."


"My cat pissed my bed last night and I slept in my bed, anyway."


"Yeah and then I picked up its shit and didn't wash my hands afterwards."


"Yep, so it can't be me!"

No, you wouldn't fucking say that, would you?

The boy continues to sniff me.

"Yeah, that's definitely you. Is it?"
I think the question usually comes BEFORE the answer.

"Well...I do have apple-scented trash bags..."

"Heh. Why would you smell like your trash bags."
He says this in a condescending tone, like I'M the idiot in this conversation. YOU JUST SNIFFED ME, MAN. What are you, a dog? What's next, the hole in my ass? STAY AWAY FROM THE HOLE IN MY ASS. IT ONLY TAKES VISA.

"Why...wouldn't I smell like my trash bags...?"
Yeah okay so this was a weird thing to say. But the whole conversation was weird. 

And besides, what's more normal? To smell like apples or to smell like trash bags? I touch trash bags more than I touch apples. I am surrounded by trash bags but I am not surrounded by apples. How you like dem apples? I like em in my trash bags, that's where I fucking like them.

"Hey, can I bum a cigarette?"
Was this the intended outcome for this entire conversation? Why did we just waste all this time talking about imaginary apple aroma when all he wanted was a smoke?

I'm still not sure if I know this person or not...or if he even knows me...

Alright, so there's a chance he might know me...

Hey, Natasha! Let's be really fucking obvious!

"You're still always logged on to the computer I use in class. I guess we both sit at the same desk everyday."
Shit, I DO know this person! See. This is what happens when night-people sign up for 9 a.m. classes. We wander around getting sniffed by people who we actually know but think we don't know. We become Human Scratch and Sniffs. It's very unsettling - and it tickles.

"Next time you forget to sign out, I'm gonna fuck up your shit!" 
He's joking. Shit. I should joke back. That's the rule, right? Pressure, pressure, pressure...

"Well, I love a good fucking up!"

I don't know what to call this, but I can describe it. You know how people shit out their asses? Sometimes, I shit out my mouth. And I can't control it. It's like diarrhea. But of dialogue. "BUTT" of dialogue. Wow. Butt jokes haven't gotten old since Kindergarten. Should I CRACK another? HAHAHAHA---

Okay I'll stop.

I returned to my pogging. (For those of you with horrible short-term memory: "pogging" is a word I invented that is now in Webster's dictionary. Five-hundred dollars will be sent to me anytime it is used, so you better begin using it.) (For those of you with excellent short-term memory: yes, I did just make that up.) Pogging along, I checked my watch, forgetting how much time that smelling-session had lasted.

And then I began to run.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Gravy Groin

I just want Chris Farley to be my lunchlady. Is that really too much to ask? I mean, look at him:

"Natasha...I've always wanted to feed you meatballs..."

"Great, Chris! I love spaghetti!"

"Oh, did I say meatballs? I balls..."

It'd be like that except without the testicles because that's disgusting and I don't know what made me say it. Regardless, now you're thinking about it. SHAME ON YOU. You sick bastard.

Cafeteria food has become a big part of my life now. Thought that ended in middle school, didn't you? Yeah well. So did I.

I don't know how other college cafeterias work, but here's mine: you walk in, they swipe your card, and you are free. Free, free, FREE! Free to roam! Free to wander! Free to eat whatever you want and as much of it as you want! Free to stay in there all day eating! Free to gain 100 pounds! Free to stuff your face! Free to shove warm food in your pants and let it warm your crotch! FREE.

Pizza, burgers, sandwiches, ice cream, cookies, quesadillas, rice, biscuits, the Karate Kid - THEY HAVE IT ALL. Being a "broke-ass mo-fo," this fascinated me. Had I been completely ignorant of this buffet for the past 4 years of my life? Or was this a new thing? Surely the biggest news stations had broadcasted this phenomenon.


I'm sure they all covered this groundbreaking story. 

"And here we are, live, at a local university's campus, where there appears to be a hoard of pigs that have escaped from a nearby farm and found their way into this school's cafeteria. These hogs ---"

"Ahem, Janet."

"Yes, Tom?"

"Those are not pigs."


"Well, folks, that was Janet on our College Benefits for Students segment on today's show. We're gonna take a short commercial break now."

It is to my fortune and my misfortune that I can only go once a day due to financial funds. The plus side is that I don't have to worry about growing in size like Violet Beauregarde, but the down size is that when I go, I must make sure to eat enough to last me for the rest of my day. And night. And next morning, because I'm too lazy to walk there when I wake up, as well as too half-conscious to remember to dress myself before leaving the house. There's another news story for ya:

"And here we are, live, where the Bible has finally been proven true! I am standing here with THE Eve from the garden of Eden. She seems to have traveled in time somehow and found this college campus to satisfy her munchies---"

"Ahem, Janet."

"Yes, Tom?"

"That's not Eve."


"Well, folks, that was Janet with our breaking news story of a casual streaker caught on campus, last seen calmly walking toward the school's cafeteria, seeming completely unaware that she is naked. Now here's Tod, with the weather."

But when I do make that ten-minute walk to eat, I am READY. I'm always greeted with one out of two ways:

"NaTAAAAAAAAAsha! How you doin,' babay chile!"


"It's Little Black Ridin' Hood! Go git you sumpin to eat, honey thang!"

How can you not love this place? They know me by name AND have given me a nickname. AND they're never out of Lucky Charms. The place is a utopia for starving children and leprechauns.

Every day I'm shovelin' except when someone comments. Alright, so this happened once, but it was some bullshit and I'm not over it. I had a plate of lasagna, a mini-sandwich, and some bread pudding with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top---


---and the lunchman stops, eyes my plate of food, and starts laughing, while I'm standing there thinking, 'Who knew ham could be so funny?' But then he continues.

"You're gunna beef up eatin' like DAT! Yeah, yeah, youz gunna beef UP."

Alright, Gravy Groin, let's get this straight.

1. You've already beefed up, which I guess means you have enough experience to issue the warning, but go issue it to someone who needs it. You wouldn't say that to a big girl, would you? Would you walk up to a large woman and look at her food and bellow, "DAYUM! You gunna git bigger eatin' like DAT!" No, you wouldn't. And you shouldn't. So don't do it to me.

2. "Beef up" is in reference to muscles, not fat. I'm not gaining muscle tone by eating ice cream. We both know this. Webster knows this. Think before you speak.

3. NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM. That's me. Being Cookie Monster. Because no matter what you say, I'm throwing this food directly at my face and hoping most of it makes it into my mouth. 

All I know is, Chris Farley would never do that to me. 

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Vagina Awareness Month

Let's go back to the basics. Remember those elementary school journal entries you used to have to write?

"Alright, class," your teacher with the red scrunchie begins.

You're nine years old, so you've already stopped paying attention when she said "Al." Now you're making a building out of pencil shavings, until you realize why thin slices of wood are not commonly used for construction. Your building is flat, but you don't care. You're already focused on a new project.

Now you're drawing a picture of two clouds. They're in love. You know they're in love because you've drawn them with a pink gel pen, and pink means romance. You call your masterpiece "Puffy Love," and then you remember your teacher was saying something.

"First, next, then, last," she finishes.

"Boggles," you think, because you're nine and haven't been introduced to the wonders of profanity yet. 

"Alright, class, begin writing."

"Eggo," you mutter around your breath as a substitute for the profound aforementioned "boggles," because you're a kid, and kids make up shit.

", I got this," you think to yourself. 

In honor of childhood, this is the construction of writing I am going to use for my following story of how my writing class went tonight.

First, everyone thought I was a lesbian.

"Did you all participate in the 'Coming Out' affair last week?" my teacher asks us as we shuffle into the room in a punctual fashion.

"What?" I ask, setting down my bag and pushing my buttocks into my fucking awesome swivel-chair.

"It was a Gay Pride festival. Supporters were supposed to wear purple."

"UGH, why don't I ever know about this stuff?" I whine, swiveling around like the windshield wiper-blades of a car. (In college, this is acceptable when seated in a swivel-chair. However, a full 360-degree-turn would be seen as childish and distracting. Stick to my method. Remember these words. If you must swivel, then swivel you must. But do it like wiper-blades in a rain shower. Not like donuts in an abandoned parking lot.)

"Why, did you want to come out?" asks a fellow peer of mine, one whom I have never spoken to this entire semester. 

"Yeah, I strongly support that. I would have been there had I known."


"Wait...I mean I wanted to "come out," not come...out..."

"It's okay, no one is judging you here," he says, throwing his hands in the air like he's about to surrender.

"This is ridiculous. Defending my sexuality in the middle of class," I retort, slinking into my seat and crossing my arms.

"It's fine, I support gays," he says reassuringly.

My teacher clears her throat and switches the topic. Before I can even retaliate. And I wasn't even going to, BECAUSE WHY IS THIS EVEN A DISCUSSION RIGHT NOW? "I am straight" is not something I planned to alert my class of when I began this semester. Can you imagine? Someone in class shouting,

"I am a heterosexual!"

Wow! Good for you! While we're on the topic of useless information, I have a vagina! Did you need to know that? Are you planning to do anything with it? Do you realize that you are paying to be here, which means you basically just paid a college university to know what lies beyond Natasha Ferrier's zipper? I see no reason for this unless it's Vagina Awareness Month. Which by the way, DOESN'T EXIST. 

So then I just sat there, wondering if everyone now believed me to be a lesbian. There's a plus side to that; boys would leave me alone, but there's also that downside of any female I spoke to would probably think I was hitting on her. And I couldn't really bring it up later, because that would seem obsessive. I thought of dropping subtle hints reeking of stereotypes, like maybe I could shout:

"I hate Xena."


"Bruce Willis and Jodie Foster would make a great couple don't you think?"

But besides the fact that Xena the Warrior Princess is butch and Jodie Foster is actually a lesbian, I couldn't think of anything else to prove that I like men. Except maybe:

"Anyone around here got a penis? I really need one."

But after the whole gay-mix-up, they'd probably think I was referring to strap-ons, and not actual danglies. See? The whole thing was just one, big predicament. Pre-DICK-ament. Damn, I'm clever.

Next, some guy passed out on my desk.

The one who now thought I liked V-to-V friction based on his earlier inquiry suddenly swiveled over to my desk and paused beside me. Then he looked over. And began to stare.

I don't like to give in to "the stare." Usually, if I think someone is staring at me, I try my hardest to act like I have no idea what is going on, while also pretending that I have seen something truly remarkable lying on the floor below. Do you know why I do this? Because I always get caught staring. I zone out, don't even realize I've begun staring at someone, and then they look at me like I'm a weirdo, and it hits me that I've been gazing at them and possibly drooling due to the "zoning out" bit. OR - I'll look over at someone for one fucking glance, and they happen to look over one millisecond after my glance, and then they assume I've been looking at them this whole time. Fucking. Bullshit.

"I can smell it from here."

"What?!" I finally look over at him. 

"Your Red Bull. I love that smell."

" Red Bull, yes, yes..."
You might wanna mention what the hell you're talking about the next time you turn to a girl and say, "I can smell it from here." Good god man.


"Bill, shush," my teacher says to him, since he has taken the liberty to literally shout this in class.

"Yep, you caught me. I'm getting drunk in class," I say, dryly.

Alright, I know I can be funny at times, but I'm gonna have to be the first to admit here that making a joke that I'm getting drunk is NOT worth a full-fledged fit of gigglies. Or whatever it is men do. Chuckle? Who cares. Moving on.

He then takes out his pack of cigarettes and puts one in his mouth. He sits there. Cig-in-mouth. But does not light it. Suddenly, his eyelids seem to become very heavy, and his head starts to bob up and down. This guy. Is dozing off. Just like that. One minute he's laughing way too loud, and then BAM! Snoozing. His entire body begins to sway with his head, and not to the left - toward the board - but to the right, toward me. Bobbing...bobbing...leaning....leaning...

DONE. Head hits my desk. He lays there for a good three minutes, than WAHOO! He springs up. If this was a horror movie, I'd title it, Attack of the Human Slinky! Except this wasn't a horror movie. This was night class.


Slinky has now began smacking himself in the face. And no, not once.


...I'm beginning to wonder if I'm the only one seeing this...


...I'm beginning to wonder if I could just smack him, myself...


"Bill! Please. Control yourself," my teacher strains, remaining much calmer than I could have in that situation. 

Slinky immediately turns to me ad starts talking again, loudly.

"Do I need to separate you two?" my teacher asks, interrupting her own lecture.

WHAT - THE FUCK. I'm not even doing anything. First, I'm a lesbian, and now I'm being accused of flirting with unconscious-pain-lover. "Separate us?" Am I in middle school? Did he yank my ponytail and start snickering as I whined, "Stawwwwwwwwpppppp!" No. But luckily, this made him swivel yonder, back to his own seat on the opposite side of the classroom. So really, I have my teacher to thank.

Then, Slinky takes me to a graveyard.

"Alright, class, let's take a ten-minute break."

FINALLY. I've had enough of this guy.

"Hey, you going outside for break?"

Slinky follows me outside and then plops right next to me as I take a seat on a bench. He strikes up a casual conversation about some girl he had hit on earlier (alright, so maybe that isn't "casual," but it's far more normal than taking a nap on my keyboard), and as I turn to respond and then glance away, he interrupts me.

"Look at me again."

"Uhhh..." I cautiously turn my head back toward him.

"You have. The most gorgeous eyes. I have ever seen."
God. Damnit.

"Thank you."

"They're green with little flecks of blue..."

"Yes. They are. That color."
I'm really bad with compliments from people WHO I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.

"And I can tell, you're not wearing any make-up."

"Nope. I don't usually wear make-up to class."

"Wow. Whoever your boyfriend is - and I assume you have a boyfriend - he is one lucky guy."
Alright, dude. You think I'm stupid. You think I don't know that "declaration" of yours was really a question in disguise? I'm not playing these games. We will sit. In silence. Until you cut. The bullshit.

"You are naturally gorgeous...and so smart...the things you say in class..."
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON. The things I say in class? You mean when I just unintentionally convinced everyone I'm a homosexual? Yeah, that was realllll smart of me.

Thankfully, he stops and starts staring into space. I immediately decide that this guy is on something. Really. This is was not a sober encounter on his part. 

"Come here, I want to show you something," he suddenly leaps up and begins walking. Away from the building that our class is in. Away from campus. And toward a graveyard.

I do not get up. I'm unnaturally paranoid, and this realization makes itself evident when I find that I have subconsciously slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the pepper spray that I keep on my keys.

And then I get up. Because I'm retarded.

"It's just over here, I promise. We'll only be a few minutes late back to class..."

I begin to follow. Because I'm retarded.

"Wow, I can't believe you're actually following me."
Uh, way to make this ten times creepier, man.

"It's okay. If you attack me, I'm prepared to defend myself."
See? Unnaturally paranoid. And yes, I did actually say this. Without thinking about it first. Which is probably something I should work on. They tell you to "speak your mind" but they left out the part that sometimes when you do, you get attacked by a hoodlum.

"What?!" he laughs, obviously not taking me seriously. Thankfully, we stop just outside the graveyard and he shows me a sign. Then we head back to class.

Last, we all figure out he's wasted.

I just gave the ending away there, didn't I? 

"I can't believe our professor told us to separate," Slinky reminds me, "We don't even know each other and it's like we're already great friends."

Keep in mind - I've been in class for over three months now, and this guy has never spoken a word to me. So why today? BECAUSE HE'S FUCKED UP ON SOMETHING. I'm telling you, he's wasted. Shit. I already told you that, didn't I? Just pretend like you don't know.

Slinky leaves class once, and finally someone says something.


He had been yelling out random things all night. When we were talking about how to write a newspaper column for our next assignment, this is what he said:

"When I was a newspaper boy, I used to throw the papers to bust out the street lights. One time, I got one!"

This man is thirty years old. By the way.

"I don't know," my teacher sighs. "I just don't know. I'm going to have to talk to him later."

He returns, and I did my best not to make eye contact with him, then immediately regretted it when I heard my teacher say,

"BILL. Button up your shirt."

What? It took me everything to not turn around. What had he been doing in the bathroom? Was his shirt all the way unbuttoned? It definitely wasn't just a couple, or my teacher would not have commanded him to fix it.

Ten minutes later, and he gets up and leaves again.

"You can smell it from here."

"Yeah, it reeks."

I turn around to find the two girls that sit beside him pointing to his gigantic, red water jug.

"He's definitely drinking. His breath is pure alcohol after he takes a sip from that thing."

Aha. So I was right. And that's it. That mere conclusion sums up my entire two-and-a-half-hour class this evening. Here lies the problem with the "first, then, next, last" method. There's something lacking. Is that really the last of it? Let's add something. Let's add...and yet.

And yet...they all still think I'm a lesbian.