I may or may not have salted a stranger. Alright, you caught me. I salted him. I salted the hell out of him, in fact. Yes, he deserved it and no, I do not feel ashamed. I may feel ashamed that I told some guy at a party that he was dressed like a homosexual from the 1970s, but I feel no shame in my Waffle House impulses. The guy sitting behind us as we ate kept creepily hitting on my friend who obviously had no interest in him. He wouldn't leave us alone, which left me no choice. The man needed to be salted.
Last week was one of those weeks that leads you to give up entirely. After deciding that not one fuck will be given over the course of the weekend, you're salting strangers at 3am on a Saturday night. It's a freeing experience. I highly recommend it. You may be wondering what kind of week has someone seasoning humans. Well, I'm about to tell you. It all began with a sweater.
Thursday night, I find myself at a bar I rarely go to. I stopped going to this bar after I got beat up by a bunch of frat guys, though I could have kicked their asses. I just decided not to. Obviously...
So I'm at this bar playing pool when I see someone I know racking the balls at the pool table right next to me. I go up and say hey.
"Hey!"
(Just like that.)
"Hey! What's up?"
"Just shooting some pool with a couple friends."
"Yep, me too. YOUR EX-BOYFRIEND is coming later!"
(Kinda like that. "Your ex-boyfriend" was not actually stated, but that's who was mentioned.)
"Nice!"
(Playing it cool.)
A few minutes later, I'm talking to the friend again when suddenly the former boyfriend approaches. I say hey.
"Hey!"
(Still playing it cool.)
"Nice sweaterrrrrrrrr..."
I look down and realize...I am wearing his sweater.
I tried to think of a response, which didn't work, so I opened my mouth to say something, thinking that if maybe my mouth was open, words would just fall out of it. Except no words came. So I am now just standing there. With my mouth open. And I look at the sweater. And I look up. And I try and close my mouth but it won't close. And this is when I decided that the only thing to do in this situation is turn and walk away. With my mouth still hanging open.
NOT PLAYING IT COOL, NATASHA. NOT PLAYING IT COOL.
Of all the nights. Of all the people. Of all the sweaters.
IT'S A NICE SWEATER, OKAY? I JUST LIKE SWEATERS.
My intended alcohol consumption increased after this encounter, and the next thing you know, I'm feeding all my one dollar bills to the jukebox machine. Except that every time I put in a dollar, the jukebox spits out four quarters. I take the quarters and click the screen for a song, but none of my songs will play. This continues for about twenty minutes. Put in a dollar, grab my four quarters, click the screen, nothing happens. I continue doing this until I have ten dollars in quarters in my pockets and then it hits me: this is not the jukebox. This is the change machine.
WATCH OUT FOR THE BORDERLINE RETARD! She just might wear your sweater.
The next night, I made it a point to not make a fool of myself, which is easier said than drank. I ended up going from point A to point F in a single car ride, which I'm not going to get into, because you're a smart person and you can figure it out yourself. Besides, that's not the funny part. The funny part is the texts I checked the next morning. According to my phone, I got a text around 4 in the morning from a male acquaintance, saying the following:
"Come to my house. There is money involved."
There is money involved? Who is this, Nic Cage? Am I in Las Vegas right now? Well I'm leaving.
WATCH OUT FOR THE ALLEGED PROSTITUTE! She just might puke in your car.
So after Friday night comes Saturday night, and I swore to myself that I would not be going out. But then it gets dark. And do you know what happens when it gets dark? It makes me want to go out, that's what happens. And that is what happened. One minute I'm at work and the next minute I'm at a house show carrying around a bag of beer and being recognized as "that Febreze girl." I had to tell two different people that no, I did not "bring the Febreze with me," and after explaining that that was a one time thing, I ran into the guy who had offered me money. Naturally, I approached him.
"I AM NOT A HOOKER."
"What?"
"Come to my house? There is money involved?"
"I did not say that."
"Yes you did."
"No I did not."
"Yes you did. Here it is on my phone. Look."
I hold up my phone. He looks.
"Well I don't remember saying that."
"Well you did."
"Well I am sober right now."
What does that have to do with anything?
"Well...okay? Whether you're sober or not, I AM NOT A HOOKER."
And I don't remember exactly how the conversation ended, but I know it involved me walking away. I wish I hadn't, though, because I then immediately run into Earring Magic Ken.
"You look like a homosexual from the 1970s!"
"You're always such an asshole whenever I see you."
"Yeah...uh...."
I was speechless because 1) he's probably right and 2) the first time I met the guy, I had to deem him as "Stranger Danger" because he was the first of three guys who decided it was okay to come up and kiss me, which occurred all in the same night. So basically, yes I'm a dick, but yes he deserves it.
Someone else approached me then and introduced himself and by this point, I'm immediately on guard. I'm either going to be called an asshole or someone is going to try and rent my asshole. I still say hello.
"I'm Natasha."
"I know."
"You know? Oh my god I'm so sorry, my memory is horrible. Have we met before?"
"No. We've never met."
"Oh...then how did you know my name?"
"I read your blog."
"No way! How'd you know about it?"
"I heard about it. From a friend of a friend. A lot of people I know read it."
"WHAT?!"
So this made up for everything else that happened all week. Because it's fucking awesome.
WATCH OUT FOR THE RECOGNIZED BLOGGER! She just might salt you.
"Natasha Ferrier is absolutely HILARIOUS." - Natasha Ferrier, self-quoter
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
This is Basically a Wish List in Disguise
Random Stories After Sleeping On My Kitchen Floor
Story #1
Don't ask me about the kitchen floor. That's between me and the tiles. (I know this isn't technically a "story.")
The End.
(But now it is.)
Story #2
Just a few weeks ago, I had my first day of school!
..for the eighteenth time.
I had class at 9:00am. The only reason I was still awake at three in the morning was because I couldn't decide if I wanted to shower or not. Wait - let me rephrase that. I had decided that I did not want to shower but I had not decided if I should have. Wait - I definitely should have because I had fleas and my hair looked like the BP oil spill, but I didn't know if I would.
I remember the days when I loved picking out my "first day of school" outfit. That was five years ago.
I remember the days when I loved getting to meet new classmates. That was ten years ago.
I remember the days when I loved waking up at 7 in the morning. That was never.
Timeline Time!
(Line of a time? Time for a line?)
1:00am - I start deliriously blogging about my indecision to bathe, which is just now getting posted.
3:00am - I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why I can't fall asleep.
4:00am - I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering how much glow-in-the-dark stars cost.
5:00am - I'm still awake.
6:00am - You know you're going to have a long day when you have yet to go to bed and you hear your morning alarm go off. I hit "snooze" and watch in envy as my phone sleeps. Fuck you, phone.
7:00am - My sister informs me that she will not be able to give me a ride to school. I leave my house and begin walking to campus.
7:01am - It begins to pour. I have no umbrella, no raincoat, and bowling shoes.
8:15am - The streets of downtown Chattanooga start echoing with my screams of profanity.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
8:16am - I look over to see a line of ten cars waiting at a stoplight. I make eye contact with three of the drivers, awkwardly nod my head, and continue screaming cuss words.
8:49am - I run into a campus bathroom and peel my soaking wet clothes off and change into a dress I had in my backpack.
8:59am - I make it to class with one minute to spare.
9:50am - Class is dismissed. I rise from my seat and slip on the puddle I had no idea I had created.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first day of school.
Story #3
Setting: Japanese restaurant.
me: Are they playing Mariah Carey?
friend: Yeah...they are...
me: Honestly, I love Mariah Carey. I don't know why. I'm obsessed with all her songs.
friend: Do you like her song, "Obsessed?"
me: I've actually never heard that one...when I said "all" her songs, I really meant the "all three that I know."
friend: You should listen to it, I really like it. She wrote it after she allegedly cheated on Nick Cannon with Eminem.
me: WHAT? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!
friend: Eight years ago.
me: Oh.
...if anyone has any other shocking news that happened eight years ago, please tell me now. Chances are I haven't heard about it.
Story #4
This procrastinating thing is getting out of hand. One moment I have sat down to write a paper and the next thing I know, I'm looking up Space Jam action figures. I open up my textbook to read an assigned chapter, and suddenly I'm online looking at Harold and Maude refrigerator magnets. I managed to neglect an entire assignment last night due to my inexplicable urge to design a lifesize cardboard-cutout of myself. Why myself? Because it'd be hilarious, that's why. It's a humor thing. Not some weird sexual thing. Don't even get me started on the Nic Cage pillowcases...(which are on sale on Amazon for $15.18 if you ever feel the need to make my wildest dreams come true).
Story #5
I was on the kitchen floor because of the fleas in my bedroom. There. I said it. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY. You owe me now, though.
Story #1
Don't ask me about the kitchen floor. That's between me and the tiles. (I know this isn't technically a "story.")
The End.
(But now it is.)
Story #2
Just a few weeks ago, I had my first day of school!
..for the eighteenth time.
I had class at 9:00am. The only reason I was still awake at three in the morning was because I couldn't decide if I wanted to shower or not. Wait - let me rephrase that. I had decided that I did not want to shower but I had not decided if I should have. Wait - I definitely should have because I had fleas and my hair looked like the BP oil spill, but I didn't know if I would.
I remember the days when I loved picking out my "first day of school" outfit. That was five years ago.
I remember the days when I loved getting to meet new classmates. That was ten years ago.
I remember the days when I loved waking up at 7 in the morning. That was never.
Timeline Time!
(Line of a time? Time for a line?)
1:00am - I start deliriously blogging about my indecision to bathe, which is just now getting posted.
3:00am - I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why I can't fall asleep.
4:00am - I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering how much glow-in-the-dark stars cost.
5:00am - I'm still awake.
6:00am - You know you're going to have a long day when you have yet to go to bed and you hear your morning alarm go off. I hit "snooze" and watch in envy as my phone sleeps. Fuck you, phone.
7:00am - My sister informs me that she will not be able to give me a ride to school. I leave my house and begin walking to campus.
7:01am - It begins to pour. I have no umbrella, no raincoat, and bowling shoes.
8:15am - The streets of downtown Chattanooga start echoing with my screams of profanity.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
8:16am - I look over to see a line of ten cars waiting at a stoplight. I make eye contact with three of the drivers, awkwardly nod my head, and continue screaming cuss words.
8:49am - I run into a campus bathroom and peel my soaking wet clothes off and change into a dress I had in my backpack.
8:59am - I make it to class with one minute to spare.
9:50am - Class is dismissed. I rise from my seat and slip on the puddle I had no idea I had created.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first day of school.
Story #3
Setting: Japanese restaurant.
me: Are they playing Mariah Carey?
friend: Yeah...they are...
me: Honestly, I love Mariah Carey. I don't know why. I'm obsessed with all her songs.
friend: Do you like her song, "Obsessed?"
me: I've actually never heard that one...when I said "all" her songs, I really meant the "all three that I know."
friend: You should listen to it, I really like it. She wrote it after she allegedly cheated on Nick Cannon with Eminem.
me: WHAT? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!
friend: Eight years ago.
me: Oh.
...if anyone has any other shocking news that happened eight years ago, please tell me now. Chances are I haven't heard about it.
Story #4
This procrastinating thing is getting out of hand. One moment I have sat down to write a paper and the next thing I know, I'm looking up Space Jam action figures. I open up my textbook to read an assigned chapter, and suddenly I'm online looking at Harold and Maude refrigerator magnets. I managed to neglect an entire assignment last night due to my inexplicable urge to design a lifesize cardboard-cutout of myself. Why myself? Because it'd be hilarious, that's why. It's a humor thing. Not some weird sexual thing. Don't even get me started on the Nic Cage pillowcases...(which are on sale on Amazon for $15.18 if you ever feel the need to make my wildest dreams come true).
Story #5
I was on the kitchen floor because of the fleas in my bedroom. There. I said it. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY. You owe me now, though.
HINT HINT
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
If Mufasa Had Died from Lung Cancer
Random Thoughts After Inhaling Flea Repellent For Four Hours
Thought #1
iiiiiiiiiiiifffff sjdkd skddddd heyyyyyyy --- just kidding. I'm not high. I'm just abnormally flea-free.
Thought #2
For those of you who didn't know, you are not supposed to inhale flea repellent. Unfortunately, the can of spray FAILED TO FUCKING TELL ME THAT. Instead, it told me to "Spray it everywhere! Don't be shy! Have some fun with it, will ya? Spray your bed! Spray your pillow! Spray your dinner! Spray your eyeballs! Spray your neighbor! Spray your spray!"
Alright, so it didn't word it like that (but basically, it did). This is what the back of the can actually said:
Directions for Use: Spray underneath furniture, sofas, chairs, and beds. Evenly apply a fine mist or spray to carpets, rugs, drapes, and all surfaces of upholstered furniture by using a wide, sweeping motion.
Those are the directions. Directions, as in WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO. There is nothing in there about doing anything else besides that. So last night, I did as I was told and sprayed my mattress, my clothes, and my pillow. Then I laid down to go to sleep, which wasn't as successful as I had anticipated. For some reason, I kept waking up in a dry coughing fit that burned deep in my chest. Then all day today, I was very short of breath and couldn't laugh at anything without gasping for air afterwards, which lead to another coughing rampage that sounded like Mufasa if Mufasa had died from lung cancer.
I didn't allow myself to think too much of it until I got on the phone with my father.
"Hey Dad!"
"Natasha?"
"Yes...this is she. Your first-born daughter. Remember me?"
"Yes, of course, you just sound really different."
"I sound different?"
"Yeah...your voice. It sounds off."
"Oh...yeah well it's probably from inhaling flea repellent all night."
"What?"
"Don't worry, it wasn't on purpose."
"I'm still very worried."
"Yeah my heart aches in my chest whenever I try and talk...I'll be fine, though."
"This is just making me even more worried."
"I'm sure I'll be fine. It's probably just allergies."
"Well call me later, okay? I want to see how you're doing."
"Okay, I will!"
After getting off the phone with my dad, my sister calls me.
"Hey Natasha!"
"Hey! What's up?"
"Are you okay?"
"What? Yeah, I'm fine. Why? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, but your voice..."
"What? What's wrong with my voice?"
"It sounds terrible."
"I'm fine, I just ruuuuh! RUUUH! RUHHH! RUHHHH!"
"Your cough sounds awful, too...are you sick?"
"No, I just inhaled flea repellent for hours straight."
"You inhaled what?"
"Flea repellent. It comes in a can."
"Good god...is that what people are doing these days?"
"WHAT NO, I didn't do it intentionally."
"It wouldn't surprise me."
"Um okay RUDE."
"Sorry, but the last story you told me was ---"
"Yes yes yes I remember our conversations from yesterday, thank you."
"Seriously though, that really worries me. All those chemicals in your lungs...you could get cancer."
"Cancer?"
"Yes, cancer."
"God that would suck. First fleas, then cancer?"
"You gotta be more careful."
"I know...well I'll let you know if I figure anything out."
"Okay, bye."
And then my dad calls again.
"Feeling any better, Natasha?"
"I feel the same. But then Katrina mentioned something about me getting cancer and ---"
"Well your sister is very smart."
"And that makes her an expert on cancer?"
"You need to go home and reread the can."
"The can said NOTHING about breathing it in. It specifically said SPRAY YOUR BEDDING. And I sprayed all my clothes, too because the fleas tend to nest there. And all day I've been flea-free!"
"Alright. Just call me later, okay? Bye."
So I get home and immediately grab the can of flea spray and begin my fact-checking. Directions for use blah blah blah do not spray humans no duh storage and disposal blah blah blah CAUTION: Do not breathe vapors or spray-mist. Avoid contact with skin, eyes, or clothing. Thoroughly wash with soap and warm water after use. If inhaled: move person to fresh air. If person is not breathing, call 911 or an ambulance. If sprayed on skin or clothing: take off contaminated clothing. Immediately rinse skin with plenty of water for 15-20 minutes. Call a poison control center for treatment advice.
...well then.
Thought #3
FUCK YOU, FLEA REPELLENT. Why don't you put the "wash with soap and warm water afterwards" under the DIRECTIONS, with all the OTHER DIRECTIONS? Or better yet, "wash with warm water to avoid dying?" And what the hell do you mean "call a poison control center for treatment advice?" Why don't you call them, figure out what to do, AND PUT IT ON THE FUCKING CAN? You know what this is like? It's like if you bought hair removal cream, something like Nair that burns the hair off, and the directions said, "Put on the cream." So you put it on and after two hours, when your face or your legs or your junk are bright red, chaffed, and in flames, you reread the bottle to see that under the 'Warning' label, it says: Remove cream after 5 minutes. WHO WRITES THESE THINGS?
Thought #4
On the bright side, I see nothing about cancer.
Thought #1
iiiiiiiiiiiifffff sjdkd skddddd heyyyyyyy --- just kidding. I'm not high. I'm just abnormally flea-free.
Thought #2
For those of you who didn't know, you are not supposed to inhale flea repellent. Unfortunately, the can of spray FAILED TO FUCKING TELL ME THAT. Instead, it told me to "Spray it everywhere! Don't be shy! Have some fun with it, will ya? Spray your bed! Spray your pillow! Spray your dinner! Spray your eyeballs! Spray your neighbor! Spray your spray!"
Alright, so it didn't word it like that (but basically, it did). This is what the back of the can actually said:
Directions for Use: Spray underneath furniture, sofas, chairs, and beds. Evenly apply a fine mist or spray to carpets, rugs, drapes, and all surfaces of upholstered furniture by using a wide, sweeping motion.
Those are the directions. Directions, as in WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO. There is nothing in there about doing anything else besides that. So last night, I did as I was told and sprayed my mattress, my clothes, and my pillow. Then I laid down to go to sleep, which wasn't as successful as I had anticipated. For some reason, I kept waking up in a dry coughing fit that burned deep in my chest. Then all day today, I was very short of breath and couldn't laugh at anything without gasping for air afterwards, which lead to another coughing rampage that sounded like Mufasa if Mufasa had died from lung cancer.
I didn't allow myself to think too much of it until I got on the phone with my father.
"Hey Dad!"
"Natasha?"
"Yes...this is she. Your first-born daughter. Remember me?"
"Yes, of course, you just sound really different."
"I sound different?"
"Yeah...your voice. It sounds off."
"Oh...yeah well it's probably from inhaling flea repellent all night."
"What?"
"Don't worry, it wasn't on purpose."
"I'm still very worried."
"Yeah my heart aches in my chest whenever I try and talk...I'll be fine, though."
"This is just making me even more worried."
"I'm sure I'll be fine. It's probably just allergies."
"Well call me later, okay? I want to see how you're doing."
"Okay, I will!"
After getting off the phone with my dad, my sister calls me.
"Hey Natasha!"
"Hey! What's up?"
"Are you okay?"
"What? Yeah, I'm fine. Why? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, but your voice..."
"What? What's wrong with my voice?"
"It sounds terrible."
"I'm fine, I just ruuuuh! RUUUH! RUHHH! RUHHHH!"
"Your cough sounds awful, too...are you sick?"
"No, I just inhaled flea repellent for hours straight."
"You inhaled what?"
"Flea repellent. It comes in a can."
"Good god...is that what people are doing these days?"
"WHAT NO, I didn't do it intentionally."
"It wouldn't surprise me."
"Um okay RUDE."
"Sorry, but the last story you told me was ---"
"Yes yes yes I remember our conversations from yesterday, thank you."
"Seriously though, that really worries me. All those chemicals in your lungs...you could get cancer."
"Cancer?"
"Yes, cancer."
"God that would suck. First fleas, then cancer?"
"You gotta be more careful."
"I know...well I'll let you know if I figure anything out."
"Okay, bye."
And then my dad calls again.
"Feeling any better, Natasha?"
"I feel the same. But then Katrina mentioned something about me getting cancer and ---"
"Well your sister is very smart."
"And that makes her an expert on cancer?"
"You need to go home and reread the can."
"The can said NOTHING about breathing it in. It specifically said SPRAY YOUR BEDDING. And I sprayed all my clothes, too because the fleas tend to nest there. And all day I've been flea-free!"
"Alright. Just call me later, okay? Bye."
So I get home and immediately grab the can of flea spray and begin my fact-checking. Directions for use blah blah blah do not spray humans no duh storage and disposal blah blah blah CAUTION: Do not breathe vapors or spray-mist. Avoid contact with skin, eyes, or clothing. Thoroughly wash with soap and warm water after use. If inhaled: move person to fresh air. If person is not breathing, call 911 or an ambulance. If sprayed on skin or clothing: take off contaminated clothing. Immediately rinse skin with plenty of water for 15-20 minutes. Call a poison control center for treatment advice.
...well then.
Thought #3
FUCK YOU, FLEA REPELLENT. Why don't you put the "wash with soap and warm water afterwards" under the DIRECTIONS, with all the OTHER DIRECTIONS? Or better yet, "wash with warm water to avoid dying?" And what the hell do you mean "call a poison control center for treatment advice?" Why don't you call them, figure out what to do, AND PUT IT ON THE FUCKING CAN? You know what this is like? It's like if you bought hair removal cream, something like Nair that burns the hair off, and the directions said, "Put on the cream." So you put it on and after two hours, when your face or your legs or your junk are bright red, chaffed, and in flames, you reread the bottle to see that under the 'Warning' label, it says: Remove cream after 5 minutes. WHO WRITES THESE THINGS?
Thought #4
On the bright side, I see nothing about cancer.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Gandhi, Mother Theresa, and Neville Longbottom's Parents
This Week's Conversations
Conversation #1
friend: Natasha!
me: Oh, hey! I just got out of Shakespeare class.
friend: I'm headed there now! (comments on Shakespeare)
me: (complains about Shakespeare)
friend: So I heard you have fleas...I HAVE FLEAS, TOO!
me: No way!
friend: I took my dog to the vet and apparently fleas are a huge problem right now because of all the humidity.
me: THIS IS SUCH GOOD NEWS!
See? It's not my fault. We are dealing with a flea epidemic here, people. Also known as the newest fad. That's right, all the cool kids have them. Jump on the bandwagon. Or on my arm. With all the fleas.
Conversation #2
sorority girl: Excuse me, may I interview you and record it real quick?
me: Sure, why not!
sorority girl: GREAT! Thank you! Ready, girls?
me: (suddenly surrounded by eight giggling Greeks) Oh wow...there are a lot of you.
chorus: (giggle giggle giggle)
sorority girl: (speaking into a hairbrush like it's a microphone) Do you believe that gay and lesbian couples should have the same adoption rights as heterosexual couples do?
me: Yes.
sorority girl: ...
me: Do I have to say why?
sorority girl: Yes.
me: Oh, okay, um...yes because the notion to ostracize homosexuals is old-fashioned.
sorority girl: (nods)
me: We should have progressed enough by now to realize that a person's romantic preference has nothing to do with their capability to raise a child...
sorority girl: (nods)
me: A maternal instinct is innate, just as heterosexual feelings are...
sorority girl: (still nodding)
me: Is that enough? Can I stop now?
sorority girl: That was great! Thank you!
...WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'M A LESBIAN.
Conversation #3
me: (walking into the Lost and Found office and immediately spotting the things I had left in the ladies' restroom) THOSE ARE MY SWEDISH FISH!
secretary: ...
me: AND THAT'S MY RED BULL!
secretary: And...this?
me: Oh and that's my wallet, too.
...priorities.
Conversation #4
me: (waltzing into party) (I used the term 'waltzing' because it sounds much classier than 'stumbling.') (Not that I was 'stumbling.' I have less of a drunken stumble and more of a drunken 'hop.') (Let's try this again...)
me: (hopping into party) Hey! Hi! Hello!
stranger: Did you bring the Febreze with you?
me: UHHH...no...that was...last...time...
...I am now notorious for "Bedroom Mist" harassment. I should pitch this tactic to cops. "Wanna break up a party? Ditch the guns - grab the Febreze!" Gandhi would be proud. Or Mother Theresa. Wow, I ran out of peaceful people faster than I had expected...Neville Longbottom's parents? (Only dedicated Harry Potter fans will understand the cruel and inappropriate humor there.)
Conversation #5
This actually isn't a conversation but it's my blog SO I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.
I'm currently listening to Daft Punk's "Get Lucky," and while the song is catchy and puts me in an unusually chipper mood, I'm a little confused by the lyrics.
"She's up all night till the sun
I'm up all night to get some
She's up all night for good fun
I'm up all night to get lucky"
...That's just a really long time to wait. I mean, come on, all night? It sounds to me like the feelings aren't mutual if something hasn't already happened by 3:00am. Where's the passion here? Just give up, man. Come morning, you'll be too tired to do that great of a job, anyway.
Conversation #1
friend: Natasha!
me: Oh, hey! I just got out of Shakespeare class.
friend: I'm headed there now! (comments on Shakespeare)
me: (complains about Shakespeare)
friend: So I heard you have fleas...I HAVE FLEAS, TOO!
me: No way!
friend: I took my dog to the vet and apparently fleas are a huge problem right now because of all the humidity.
me: THIS IS SUCH GOOD NEWS!
See? It's not my fault. We are dealing with a flea epidemic here, people. Also known as the newest fad. That's right, all the cool kids have them. Jump on the bandwagon. Or on my arm. With all the fleas.
Conversation #2
sorority girl: Excuse me, may I interview you and record it real quick?
me: Sure, why not!
sorority girl: GREAT! Thank you! Ready, girls?
me: (suddenly surrounded by eight giggling Greeks) Oh wow...there are a lot of you.
chorus: (giggle giggle giggle)
sorority girl: (speaking into a hairbrush like it's a microphone) Do you believe that gay and lesbian couples should have the same adoption rights as heterosexual couples do?
me: Yes.
sorority girl: ...
me: Do I have to say why?
sorority girl: Yes.
me: Oh, okay, um...yes because the notion to ostracize homosexuals is old-fashioned.
sorority girl: (nods)
me: We should have progressed enough by now to realize that a person's romantic preference has nothing to do with their capability to raise a child...
sorority girl: (nods)
me: A maternal instinct is innate, just as heterosexual feelings are...
sorority girl: (still nodding)
me: Is that enough? Can I stop now?
sorority girl: That was great! Thank you!
...WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'M A LESBIAN.
Conversation #3
me: (walking into the Lost and Found office and immediately spotting the things I had left in the ladies' restroom) THOSE ARE MY SWEDISH FISH!
secretary: ...
me: AND THAT'S MY RED BULL!
secretary: And...this?
me: Oh and that's my wallet, too.
...priorities.
Conversation #4
me: (waltzing into party) (I used the term 'waltzing' because it sounds much classier than 'stumbling.') (Not that I was 'stumbling.' I have less of a drunken stumble and more of a drunken 'hop.') (Let's try this again...)
me: (hopping into party) Hey! Hi! Hello!
stranger: Did you bring the Febreze with you?
me: UHHH...no...that was...last...time...
...I am now notorious for "Bedroom Mist" harassment. I should pitch this tactic to cops. "Wanna break up a party? Ditch the guns - grab the Febreze!" Gandhi would be proud. Or Mother Theresa. Wow, I ran out of peaceful people faster than I had expected...Neville Longbottom's parents? (Only dedicated Harry Potter fans will understand the cruel and inappropriate humor there.)
Conversation #5
This actually isn't a conversation but it's my blog SO I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.
I'm currently listening to Daft Punk's "Get Lucky," and while the song is catchy and puts me in an unusually chipper mood, I'm a little confused by the lyrics.
"She's up all night till the sun
I'm up all night to get some
She's up all night for good fun
I'm up all night to get lucky"
...That's just a really long time to wait. I mean, come on, all night? It sounds to me like the feelings aren't mutual if something hasn't already happened by 3:00am. Where's the passion here? Just give up, man. Come morning, you'll be too tired to do that great of a job, anyway.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Penis Confirmed
I was called "rude" the other night for sighting a short, bearded man and exclaiming, "Bilbo Baggins?!" I should not have been called "rude" for the following reasons:
1. It's rude to call someone rude.
2. Calling someone Bilbo Baggins is a compliment.
3. He didn't even look like a hobbit; he looked like a dwarf. It would have been more appropriate to call him Gimli, but the name wasn't coming to me at the time.
4. The person who called me "rude" thought he was addressing a stranger. What he didn't know was that he was actually addressing someone who has seen multiple pictures of his penis.
5. I didn't ask to see the penis photos. They were forced up on me.
"He texted me pictures of his penis!"
"WHAT?!"
"Yes! Wanna see?"
"No."
"LOOK!"
"AH I SAID NO!"
But it was too late.
"What do you think?"
"What do I think?"
"Yeah!"
"Uh...yep, that's definitely a penis...penis confirmed."
So while this guy called me rude for calling his friend a hobbit, he had no idea that I had been referring to him as "Penis Man" for the majority of the night. One more beer and I probably would have let him in on his new nickname, but since I wasn't quite to that point, I retaliated with a new approach.
"Did you just call me rude?"
"Yeah. He doesn't look like Bilbo Baggins and he gets that all the time."
Well if he gets that all the time then maybe he does, Penis Man.
"Well. I've heard stories about you."
"Stories?"
"Yep. Stories."
"What kind of stories?"
"Just...stories."
This is my attempt to remain mysterious: saying the same word over and over again. It works. Don't believe me? Watch this:
This...
...this...
...this.
Okay, you're right. It doesn't work.
ANYWAY...
anyway...
...anyway --- sorry, I'll stop now.
Really I'm just wasting time because the story ends there. I would have liked to say that I mentioned the penis thing and made the entire situation incredibly awkward and uncomfortable for the both of us, but I didn't because I had sworn to secrecy. And because I wasn't drunk enough.
...I just dedicated an entire blog post to someone else's genitalia. That's twenty minutes of my time spent on writing about a stranger's penis. I'd like to apologize to you, to myself, and to J.R.R. Tolkien. (But no apologies to you, Penis Man.)
1. It's rude to call someone rude.
2. Calling someone Bilbo Baggins is a compliment.
3. He didn't even look like a hobbit; he looked like a dwarf. It would have been more appropriate to call him Gimli, but the name wasn't coming to me at the time.
4. The person who called me "rude" thought he was addressing a stranger. What he didn't know was that he was actually addressing someone who has seen multiple pictures of his penis.
5. I didn't ask to see the penis photos. They were forced up on me.
"He texted me pictures of his penis!"
"WHAT?!"
"Yes! Wanna see?"
"No."
"LOOK!"
"AH I SAID NO!"
But it was too late.
"What do you think?"
"What do I think?"
"Yeah!"
"Uh...yep, that's definitely a penis...penis confirmed."
So while this guy called me rude for calling his friend a hobbit, he had no idea that I had been referring to him as "Penis Man" for the majority of the night. One more beer and I probably would have let him in on his new nickname, but since I wasn't quite to that point, I retaliated with a new approach.
"Did you just call me rude?"
"Yeah. He doesn't look like Bilbo Baggins and he gets that all the time."
Well if he gets that all the time then maybe he does, Penis Man.
"Well. I've heard stories about you."
"Stories?"
"Yep. Stories."
"What kind of stories?"
"Just...stories."
This is my attempt to remain mysterious: saying the same word over and over again. It works. Don't believe me? Watch this:
This...
...this...
...this.
Okay, you're right. It doesn't work.
ANYWAY...
anyway...
...anyway --- sorry, I'll stop now.
Really I'm just wasting time because the story ends there. I would have liked to say that I mentioned the penis thing and made the entire situation incredibly awkward and uncomfortable for the both of us, but I didn't because I had sworn to secrecy. And because I wasn't drunk enough.
...I just dedicated an entire blog post to someone else's genitalia. That's twenty minutes of my time spent on writing about a stranger's penis. I'd like to apologize to you, to myself, and to J.R.R. Tolkien. (But no apologies to you, Penis Man.)
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