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---"

"Zzzzzzz..."

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.

"Hello."

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!"

"HEY!"

"HEY HEY!"

"HEY YOU!"

"NO SAY HEY TO ME!"

"SAY HEY TO ME FIRST!"

"SHUT UP I'M ABOVE YOU I HAVE THIRD BALCONY RIGHTS!"

"YOU JUST MADE THAT UP, YOU CREEPER!"

"YOU HYPOCRITE!"

"LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE SHE'S GONE!"

"HERE COMES ANOTHER!"

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.

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.

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."

"Ahem."

"Yes, Natasha?"

"I have been in a fight."

"What?"

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

"No!"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No!"

"No."

"No?"

"Yes."

"Yes to the no?"

"No."

"So yes?"

"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.

"No."

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.

"IT'S JUST BECAUSE OF MY NAME, OKAY!"

...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."

NOT!

"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.

Fuck My Life 101

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

"NO."

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.

Not-So-Sexy Singles

Not only does the college of my choice want me to have a secure meal plan and a printed syllabus, they also want me to have a date. Hence:

SPEED DATING.

I've been here for what? Three days? And already the fact that I'm single has been deemed unacceptable. Merely staring at cute boys while fantasizing their arms around me at the head of a giant ship doomed to sink is soooooo high school. Now, in college, that's right college, wait what? COLLEGE, BABY. COLLEGE. I apologize. Anyway, college students don't wait around for someone to make a move. They're the move makers, man. And the money maker shakers if you see them at a party. High school awkwardness is just a thing of my past. Hence:

SPEED DATING.

Now, I'd seen it in the movies. Okay, I'd seen it in THE movie. As in one movie. As in not the greatest example to promote speed dating. Would I meet a Gina who pronounces it with a long I? Would my chest be hanging out of my shirt without me knowing it? The curiosity was killing me. I had to know. I had to. Would I meet the love of my life? Would I meet the man of my dreams? Would I meet Hugh Jackman's clone? There was only one way to find out. Hence:

SPEED DATING.

It started with the name tags. Already I was stepping out of my comfort zone.

Where do I put this damn thing? If I put it on my stomach, when I breathe in and out it'll look like my name tag is alive. If I put it on my chest, I'll either look like I'm a slut who wants guys to look at my chest or I'll look like I had nowhere else to put it and guys will be looking at my chest. Either way, chest glances are evident. I could put it on my face to avoid body glances in general but one, body glances would be happening no matter what; two, when I took it off I'd had a red rectangle imprinted into my skin, and three, I'd look like a fucking idiot.

I put it on my shoulder.

Then came the people. Masses upon masses of not-so-sexy singles who most likely were thinking, "Man, look at all these babes!" while all the babes were thinking, "WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THE BABES." Yes, the male-to-female ratio was both pathetic and apathetic. I personally didn't give a shit if Hugh Jackman doesn't actually have a clone, (well, I may give a little shit); I was there more for speed friending. DING! And then it began.

It started out in groups of 4, you know, to warm everyone up until they felt brave enough to flirt on their own. I got lucky enough to sit next to a girl who had a lot on her mind that she obviously wanted to get out.

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"Hi I'm John---"

"Hi I'm Colette and I'm a freshman and I was really nervous about coming here but now that I'm here I'm really glad I came here so I can meet new people because no one from my high school is going here and I'm all alone but that doesn't really bother me because I like meeting new people I just don't want to shake anyone's hand because my hands get really clammy and that's why I have this cup of ice water in my hands because I'm hoping the cold water will make my hands cold instead of hot and sweaty and then I can shake people's hands and it might be weird that my hands are freezing but I think that would be a good conversation starter like wow your hands are cold and I'll be like yeah my hands are really clammy but that's why I have this ice water because I'm thinking that if I hold this ice water then my hands---"

She gave this same speech for the first 5 rounds. I did not get one fucking word in. Thank god this isn't slow dating.

DING!

Then the solo rounds began. And I realized I had taken Clammy Hands Colette for granted.

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"I'm a nerd. We wouldn't have anything in common."

DING!

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"Hi I'm Bob and I live at 345 Bruster Building if you wanna stop by because I'd like to get to know you more or actually you can just tell me your address and I can stop by sometime."

DING!

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"I know."

"What?"

"You live in Melson View Estates."

"YEAH!"

"654."

"Yeah..."

"Yeah."

DING!

"Hey! I'm Natasha!"

"That's a sexy name, Natasha."

"Thank you."

"Sexy name for a sexy lady."

"Thank you."

"How bout we leave this place and go up to my room and smoke a bowl."

"NO thank you."

DING!

Speed Dating turned out to be more of Speed Creeping Me The Fuck Out and I left still single, still in a name tag, and still Hugh-less. At least my hands weren't clammy.