Long Live Where's Waldo

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Curse of Room 324

Well, my assumption was true. The reason my 4-person dormitory has only been assigned to two people for this entire semester (two out of four is half for all of you beauty school drop-outs) was not luck. Or a fluke. Or good fortune. Good karma, maybe, since it is true that I never lie, cheat, steal, kill, say 4-letter words, or tell little kids there is no North Pole and that Mommy is lying when she says you are the best kid in the world because there's no way she could even know that because if she took the time to get to know every little kid in the entire world then she wouldn't be doing her job as a good mother to you, anyway. No. The fact that I've had a total of FIVE roommates pack their bags from Room 324 and since then no one else has stepped through that threshold is no example of serendipity.

"I heard that the Residence Director intentionally didn't move anyone else into your dorm."

That's my neighbor, highly informative.

"What? Where'd you hear that?"

That's me, highly clueless.

"What? You didn't know?"

Same neighbor, highly amused.

"No, I didn't KNOW! What are you talking about? Where'd you hear that? Is that true?"

Same me, highly curious.

"He told your roommate that today. She told me. He said he just decided that he wasn't even going to test it."

Still my neighbor, apparently knowing it all.

"I knew it! I KNEW it! I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT!"

Still me, saying I knew it but really not knowing it.

I did kind of know it though. James my RD had been a witness to countless Roommate-Rumbles throughout the first semester, all which somehow made it seem like whatever the dilemma was was all MY fault and that I'M the bad guy and I'M the reason 5 girls have ran out of this place, never to be seen again. Which explains the next thing I heard from my neighbor:

"He said your place is cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Cursed."

"Like, a curse?"

"Cursed."

"Like, there's a curse on it?"

"Like, you cursed it."

"I cursed it?"

"You cursed it."

"I cursed it?"

"You cursed it."

"CURSED?"

"Cursed."

"Well that's just ridiculous."

"You're the only one left of the original 4, which makes you the---"

"Curser?!"

"Well, I was gonna say "survivor" but that works, too."

"THIS IS ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS."

Let's look back, shall we? Let's look back at What Went Wrong: Room 324 Style. Then we can decide whose fault it was that girls with a serious lack of stability and people-skills were thrown into my life at random.

Janet

Janet was a hard-core Jesus-lover who assumed I was a Satanist because I dressed in black. (I do not know this for sure, but I'm pretty sure I'm right based on the fact that every week she insisted that every roommate attend church with her. Every roommate except me. Call yourself a good Christian, do ya? Well I got some news for you, you poser. "Be good to thy neighbor" does NOT mean, "But you can be shitty with the people you actually live with.")

Did she move out because I broke her lamp?

No. Everyone falls from time to time and that time I happened to fall into her lamp.

Did she move out because I refused to pick up the broken glass that appeared after I broke her lamp?

No. I did not remember ever breaking her lamp in the first place and therefore I saw no point in cleaning it up. However, I did end up cleaning it up after being informed that I really was the one who broke it, which made me regret screaming, "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT" at her the day before.

Did she move out because I added a fifth resident to our dorm without informing her?

No. I did not know she was highly allergic to cats and a kitten is not a cat anyway and therefore I am innocent and she is guilty.

Did she move out because I stopped calling her "Janet" and started calling her "MOTHER?"

No. A mother is a highly respected figure in our culture and she could have taken it as a compliment. Also, she had decided to wake me up in the middle of my nap to "have an emergency roommate meeting," which really meant her bitch at me about cleaning up that damn lamp. I was in the middle of recovery while I was sleeping, and had not completed such recovery when she awoke me, which meant me being a very angry person without being able to control it. Screaming and yelling and name-calling ("mother" on its own as well as "mother" with many words after it) and me challenging her religious morals were all involved, but this cannot be why she moved out because I later calmly explained that I would not lash out like that unless she interrupts my recovery again. She agreed that she would not.

Cleo

Did Cleo move out because I ate her ice cream?

No. Cleo did not move out because I ate her ice cream because once she discovered that I had treated myself for being such a delightful roommate to her, she bought a lock-box, filled it with ice cream, and stuck it in the freezer. Not only that, she bought a transparent lock-box just to cruelly taunt the hell out of me. I would have preferred her putting her thumb on her nose and wiggling her fingers at me while saying "Nanny nanny boo boo," but Cleo would never do such a thing, because Cleo had an "anxiety problem," also known as 24/7 BITCH MODE.

Did Cleo move out because I made her cry?

No. Did I physically reach into her eyeballs and extract water vapor? Did I spray her with mace? Did I spit into her pupils just to make it look like she was crying? No. All I did was have a conversation with her in front of our Residence Director and she started crying, which of course made ME look like the bitch, when really I had just as much of a reason to cry as she did, but I have a little thing called DIGNITY. I also don't cave when people cry, it only makes me madder. Did I know she was going to cry even harder when I told her that her crying was pathetic and to quit the act? Do I sound like a mean person right now? Well guess what.

THE BITCH GAVE AWAY MY KITTEN WHILE I WAS IN CLASS SO I NEVER GOT TO SAY GOODBYE AND SHE DIDN'T EVEN TELL ME SHE WAS GIVING MY KITTEN AWAY AND THE WAY I FOUND OUT WAS COMING BACK TO MY DORM AND CALLING "KITTY? KITTY?" AND DISCOVERING THAT SHE WAS GONE. I WAS VERY ATTACHED TO THAT KITTEN AND TO THIS DAY I MISS HER AND CLEO CAN CRY HERSELF TO DEATH FOR ALL I CARE I WANT MY KITTEN BACK YOU BAWLING BITCH.

Kate

Kate was awesome. Kate was my best friend. Kate was the other pea in that pod of ours, but she, too, moved out. That's as sappy as I get, and I'm still not straying from my point of NOT MY FAULT.

Danielle

I chose the pseudonym "Danielle" because it's close to the name "Danny" as in "Danny DeVito" as in the girl looked like The Penguin from Batman Returns. Which is rude and irrelevant but at this point I really don't care. She was the first "newbie" we got, the first chance James the RD gave Room 324 to relieve itself of its bad reputation. But Room 324 is a lot like Joan Jett; it doesn't give a damn about its bad reputation. Danielle was gone after only a couple weeks.

Why she left, I do not know.

Was it because she always felt watched?

Look, maybe she always felt watched, but that was entirely her own fault. Hear me out. Outside my front door is where everyone used to sit. "Everyone" as in me, my roommate, and our 4 neighbors, as well as a couple people who lived below us, and a couple people from across campus. That's quite a lot of people - quite a lot of people loitering in the only convenient place Danielle could go out to smoke. But instead of joining the border of the circle we had created, making an ever bigger but less round kind of shape, Danielle found it easier to push through our circular ruins, subconsciously inspired by Jorge Luis Borges, and stand in the very middle. Themiddle. THE MIDDLE. Are you listening? Are you comprehending this? Are you picturing this? A circle of people with one penguin-clone standing in the very middle, smoking, and not saying a word to any of us. I do not know what she was trying to accomplish with this tactic, but if it was everyone having nowhere to look except at the different angles of her body (depending on where each of us was seated and which direction she was facing), then she accomplished it.

Mariah

Ah...Mariah. I hardly even knew her, and yet I don't even know where to begin.

Did she move out because I got her weed confiscated?

Okay, let me explain myself: 1) I did not know "you could put your weed in thereeeee" and 2) IT WAS A COMPLETE ACCIDENT. I had come back to Chattanooga from a weekend at home, only to realize I had left my key at my house 2 hours away. So. I had to get an office worker to come open my door. So. The office worker was an uptight-prude who "noticed a smell" when she walked into my dorm, then noticed that the smell "smelled like smoke" then after telling me 47 times that smoking was NOT allowed in the dorms, and after me telling her 48 times that OBVIOUSLY IT WASN'T ME SINCE I WAS GONE ALL WEEKEND HELLOOOOO DIMWIT YOU HAD TO LET ME IN, REMEMBER?, she then noticed "a smoking device?!" on the table in our living room, and then informed me that she had to confiscate it. After picking it up like it was a hot skillet that weighed 2 tons, she then asked me to come with her.

"Why?"

"Because I'm confiscating it."

"Right...so why do I have to confiscate with you?"

"Because you have to sign for it."

"But it's not mine."

"There's no smoking allowed in here."

"Yes, thank you, I know."

"And you have to sign for this smoking device."

"But it's not mine."

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to come with me. You will get it returned at the end of the semester after it's been inspected."

So after signing for that damn thing and after hearing her completely blow me off every time I told her it WASN'T MINE ("You'll get it returned later. You'll get it back. You do not need to worry. You'll get your smoking device at the end of the semester. You're not allowed to have this. I don't believe you when you say it's not yours. I'm going to automatically decide you're lying even though I don't even know you. I'm a C-word that rhymes with 'blunt.' "), I left. I left that office and that dimwit and that sheet with my signature on it claiming it to be mine because she forced me to do so. And then I return to my dorm only to find a frantic Mariah and her frantic friend.

"Where's our weed?! Where's our weed?!"

"Uh...I don't know where your weed it. Sorry."

"It was on the table! It was just right here on the table when we left!"

"Woah well I'm glad it's NOT because an office worker was just in here."

"Did she take it?! Damnit did she take our weed?"

"No, she just took the "smoking device" that was on the table."

"Our weed is in there!"

"WHAT."

"There's two or three rolled-up joints in the bottom of it!"

"Ha...ha...okay just go down and sign for it because I just signed my name for that shit."

"I can't! I could get kicked out of school!"

"Then have your friend do it."

"Sorry, man, I'm on probation. I can't get in trouble with my probation officer, man."

I wanted to SCREAM. I just signed for possession of an illegal drug of a roommate I never talked to and a girl I'd never even met. And they wouldn't go sign their own fucking names for their own fucking pot. But, freaking out would not have convinced them otherwise. And so, I bullshitted.

"Oh, well I told her that it wasn't mine, and she said that once whoever's it was came down and claimed it, they'd give it back."

"Oh, good!"

"Cool, man. That means we can still get high."

"Yeah, so you should go do that. Right now."

"Right now?"

"Yeah uh the office is closing in like 10 minutes."

More bullshit.

"Yeah and they're "inspecting" it tomorrow if no one claims it tonight."

Hello, I'm a bullshitter!

"Okay then I'll go get it now!"

"Okay! Good luck!"

"Good luck?"

"Uh I mean...you go girl!"

Whether or not they got it back I'll never know. I locked myself in my room and only opened the door the six times Mariah's friend knocked on my door, standing there in her bra, asking me to come drink vodka with her, "just us two," WHATEVER THE HELL THAT MEANS.

The next week Mariah was gone. I knew she was gone because her mini-fridge was nowhere in sight and because someone had gone through my bedroom, spilled all of my drinks onto my desk, and stolen 6 of my cigarettes. What is it with people? First my kitten then my cigarettes? I don't understand why stealing mail is such a big deal. If you ask me, kittens and cigarette theft should be 600 years in jail, tops. (No, that was not a typo. I did not mean sixty, I meant six-hundred, and I still mean it. Quit wondering about it or I'll change my mind to six thousand.)

And now, it is only me and my badass roommate, who had some bad previous-roommate-experiences of her own. And this situation, I don't consider luck. Or a fluke. Or good fortune. Or some example of serendipity. It's good karma is what it fucking is. Because an entire bedroom all to ourselves, fully-dressed guests, a lock-box-free freezer and actually enjoying the company of the people you live with is exactly what the both of us deserve. Next step: reliving the kitten days.

Stick it to the Beard

"This beard is killing me, man."

Never mind the giant intertube that seems to be hidden underneath your shirt. That just CAN'T be the reason you're drenched in sweat after a 4-minute stroll to class. It's the beard, man. It's the hair on your chin that has caused your shirt to become 3 shades darker and the pores on your face 3 times larger. Damn that chin hair.

"Yeah, man. I hate my beard. Girls won't make out with you when you have a beard."

Wo-ho-HO! What have we here! Yet ANOTHER individual flaw that can be blamed all on the beard! Who ever said "stick it to the man?" I think it's quite obvious there's a new trend about town: stick it to THE BEARD.

"I know, right! Last time I shaved I had girls crawling all over me, but as soon as I grow this damn thing out they're all "eewwww noooooo it's all scratchyyyyyyy..." "

I think that all depends on where you kiss her, breh.

"The worst thing really though is the heat. I'm gonna have to shave. I can't take it anymore, man."

I've never really thought of beards as being people's own personal mini-heaters, but I guess it all makes sense now. The other day I saw a boy on a bicycle, hair flying back in the wind, arm hair flying back in the wind, leg hair flying back in the wind, whatever other hair flying back in the wind, but not his beard. OH no. The beard remained completely and absolutely: stationary. Which honestly ruined the whole picturesque-ness of Beautiful Boy On Bicycle for me, since everything oh-so-elegantly floated in the breeze except for the tangled nest of dead follicles placed smack-dab on half of his face. Why don't people grow beards like that guy in Kill Bill 2? The Asian man who whipped it to the side and intimidated us all? Now that was a sexy man-beard. It is to my dismay that I have never seen such a beard in real life. Whether or not they really exist will more than likely forever remain a mystery, since I have no intentions of jetsetting to Hohhot, China, deviously pronounced as HU-HE-HA-O-TE!" (I would constantly feel laughed at.)

Pardon my tangent on my opinion of beards, which has already changed because now that I think about it, I don't really care for Kill-Bill-Asian-Man-Beards, and would much prefer Good-Ol-Lumberjack-Beards, but then again, in 5 minutes I may change my mind yet again and want one myself. Or want one in a jar. Or want an Asian man. These things all depend on my mood and exactly how many cups of coffee I have consumed. Nevertheless, BACK TO THE POINT. You're curious now, aren't you? Intrigued? Interested? Mystified? Perhaps you're thinking, "What fascinating point could tie in to all of this beard talk? I am so titillated!" (titillated: my word of the day. I am not ashamed to admit that I still have some maturing to do. Moving on.) Maybe you're thinking, "Wow. This post SUCKS. ALL Natasha does is ramble and ramble and ramble and RAMBLE..." And if you are indeed thinking that, then WHY ARE YOU READING THIS. STOP NOW. DO NOT GO ON. I AM SERIOUS. GO READ A SNOOPY COMIC INSTEAD. THEY ARE GREAT. CHARLIE BROWN IS LIKE EIGHT AND IS BALD. IT'S GREAT.

The point: summer. I may not have a beard, but I do have an equally as troublesome dilemma in regards to staying cool in this blasted heat. MY CLOTHES. I don't know exactly when this happened, but some time in the last 3 years every pink, green, blue, and yes, even yellow, article of clothing has disappeared from my life, never to return again. It is a sad fact when you must admit to yourself that something will never return again, but at the same time it is a great revelation to experience once you have truly admitted it. COLOR IS OUT OF MY LIFE. Ah...see. I already feel refreshed. While I am perfectly content with keeping things simple (simple, a.k.a. black), other people don't seem to be, which is really quite sad...SAD THAT YOU MORONS DON'T HAVE LIVES OF YOUR OWN.

August 2009

It's August. It's summer. It's hot. I'm hot. ('hot' as in body temperature. good god, people.) I'm at a frat party. (don't judge me I was merely young and curious.) I had gone to this party accompanied by a male amigo of mine who was "in" with the fratties. I didn't really think twice about the fact that everyone was campaigning for the ALERT SOCIETY OF THE COLORS OF THE RAINBOW cause, while I was campaigning for the LONG LIVE BRANDON LEE AS THE CROW foundation, because I'm used to it. Some people dress in blue, some people dress in black. Some people dress in pink, some people would never wear pink. Some people get dressed, some people are nudists. Not a big deal. (Ready for this suspense about to hit you?) ...OR SO I THOUGHT.

Yellow Frattie and Blue Frattie pull my friend to the side and start whispering. Glancing at me sporadically. Continuing to whisper. If I were cocky, I may have thought, "Ooh, they're checking me out! They want a piece of dis azz, hell yeah baby, I'm THE SHIT!" If I were paranoid, I may have thought, "RoofieroofieohmygodI'mgonnagetraped." And if I were intoxicated, I may have thought nothing of it at all and continued to mingle with the minions. (There is also an Option D: All of the Above.)

SO. It wasn't until a few weeks later that I found out what they had said. Turns out that Yellow and Blue Frattie Fuckwads did not want a girl "like me" at their parties, that my friend could not "try and pull that shit" on them anymore, and that I was not "allowed." All because of one. single. color. You racist sonsuvbitches.

February 2010

"Natasha!"

"Hey Orangey!"

"Hey, these are my friends Yellowy and Browny."

"Hey, I'm Natasha!"

"Oh, I know."

"Oh, sorry, have we met?"

"No, but you're the girl who always dresses in all black!"

This is getting ridiculous. My identity has been stolen. By a color that technically isn't even a color. My identity has been stolen by the absence of color. I need some purple.

I mean COME ON PEOPLE. I have red shoes! And today I wore a (black) T-shirt with a GRAY picture on the front of Curly from the Three Stooges smoking a cigar. GRAY AND RED. I'm expanding! Evolving! Broadening my horizons! And I'm going to start having to because this black is hot. I'd rather be known for a color than be known for holding the world record in Perpetual Sweating. I'm like an Everlasting Gobstopper, except not. More of an Everlasting Sweatmonster. GrossYES.

Honestly this is all talk from my ass. I have no plans on changing my wardrobe; I don't even go shopping. I have one pair of pants and it's gonna stay that way. I have 13 pairs of shoes but only wear one one of them and it's gonna stay that way. I'm banned from frat parties and it's gonna stay that way. I don't give a shit about anyone's fascination with my color coordination. AND IT'S GONNA STAY THAT WAY.

What A Lurker!

Call me a lurker. A loiterer. A wanderer. A roamer. A painfully bored individual. Any of these would work. What do I do when I'm not in class, not studying, and not exploring the joyous wonders of youtube? I'M LURKING, THAT'S WHAT I'M DOING. You may call it "walking in one area," or "strolling without really going anywhere," or "pacing in place," but neither of these are as mysterious as lurking...it's mysterious, isn't it?

"Hello! I'm Natasha!"
(not so mysterious)

"Hey there Natasha! What do you like to do?"

"Oh, you know, write, doodle, lurk..."

(a hint of mystery)

"Wait, what was that last one?"

"Writing?"

(back to square one)

"No, the last one."

"Doodling?"

(trapped in that square)

"No, the LAST one."

And then I wouldn't even answer, for an answer would be unnecessary.

(oh so mysterious)

I would show them with merely my action of slowly walking off and mysteriously squinting at them, cocking my head slightly to one side, and lurking off, leaving them standing, dumbfounded, with only one thought on their mind:

"What a lurker."

Unfortunately I have not been granted the opportunity to show these lurking skills of mine to anyone else, since 1) the whole point of lurking is that you don't talk to anyone, since then your "lurking" would turn into "stopping" which leads to "chatting" which leads to my reputation as A Lurker being shot to bits. This reputation may or may not just be all in my head, but if you ever do see me, and I am walking, know that I am not walking. I am LURKING...and 2) no one really asks me what I like to do right after I introduce myself; in fact, no one ever has asked that, which really means that it makes no sense for that to be a fantasy in my head. Is this a problem? While other people's fantasies involve a scantily clad Princess Leia or being saved from the dangerous clutches of the Creature from the Black Lagoon by none other than Heath Ledger (back from the dead and hotter than ever), my fantasies involve someone asking me what I like to do. And then me lurking away. Problem? Pshh. Please. Miss New Lurker is way sexier than Miss New Booty and I'm just the only one lurky enough to admit it, except of course other famous lurkers of our times:

1. Jack the Ripper

lurker by night...killer by night...double. whammy.

2. my elementary school librarian

"What are you looking at there?"

"A book."

"Make sure you put THE BOOK MARKER where you took that book out so you know where to put it back when you're done looking."

"Ok."

Five minutes later.

"Do you have THE BOOK MARKER with you?"

"Yes."

Three minutes later.

"Make sure you put THE BOOK MARKER where the book was!"

"I will."

One minute later.

"Here, let me just give you another BOOK MARKER so you have two just in case."

"Forget it. I don't even want to read about Little Bunny Foo Foo anymore you Little Bunny Fuck Fuck."

3. Natasha Ferrier

Wait...is that my name? Why...yes...yes, it is! I have officially made it onto the list of The Most Famous Lurkers of Our Times! Why, I don't even know what to say! What an honor! What a joy! What shall I do? Shall I tell you some of my most memorable observations on my most famous lurking escapades? Why, I don't mind if I do!

Observations of a Lurker

A banner strewn across my college campus that says, "WE'RE AN ANTI-CANCER COLLEGE."

It can't be! UTC is against cancer? And all this time, I was thinking I had been accepted to a pro-cancer college, a college that is FOR CANCER. I've been tricked, I tell ya, tricked! Not only is UTC one of the colleges that does not support people dying of an incurable disease, but they are making sure that us students KNOW they are NOT a supporter of death, unlike the rumor that has been spreading about UTC funding the prohibition of research of cures for cancer.

Walking Easter eggs.

They travel in packs. Like wolves. Wolves in matching polos. But not just any polo. Polos of only the upmost pastel-ness. Baby blue. Tickle-me-pink. Innocent indigo. I-wish-I-was-a-girl-green. All huddled together. Like giant Easter eggs all in a bright Easter basket, waiting to be oogled over by all the kiddies. Oogle this, men: If you did not have a hat on your head that has had the middle of it strategically removed, I would mistake you for a colored EGG. React as you wish, I am merely being an honest fellow citizen, the same fellow citizen who is forced to look at your ridiculous Easterness when it's not even Easter.

March is Caffeine Awareness Month!

I think signs that are hung on the backs of bathroom stalls should be ones of the most crucial importance, and the fact that there is a CAFFEINE AWARENESS MONTH does not follow these guidelines. It did catch my attention, yes, but that might be less of the fact of what the sign said and more of the fact that my eyes don't usually roam around while I am seated on a commode. Caffeine awareness? Are you kidding me? Unless the point of March is to make me aware that without caffeine I would be a bitchy, brain-dead zombie, I don't see the point in making me aware, because I already know this. If I ran this country, I'd banish the entire month of March just for this ridiculousness and instead replace it with an entire new month, in which I would name: DRINKCAFFEINEORDIE, hopefully serving as a not-so-discreet subliminal message where everyone would drink caffeine and be merry and happy and have stained teeth. But that's what Crest White Strips are for.

And last, but not least: Some girl walking on the sidewalk, screaming.

"I LOOK SO UGLY! I LOOK SO UGLY! I LOOK SO UGLYYYYYYYY!"

Poor, poor, ugly girl.