1. Rrroll Up the Rrrim = A Tricksy Bitch
Ok, so when I left you I believe my stats were 1 win in 7 cups, which is respectable. As of yesterday, my stats were 1 win in 35 cups, which is no longer respectable. In fact it’s downright embarrassing. What the fuck, rrroll? All of my work-friends are sporting fabulous stats like 5/37, or 9/30 (you smarmy slut), and, for FUCK’S SAKE, someone on campus won THE GODDAM BOAT! The goddam BOAT, Rrroll!!! And you can’t even give me a free coffee?? Plus, that was not that whore’s boat to win! It was my boat! I needed it! I need it to live in when I can no longer pay my rent because of all the money I’m pissing away on Rrroll up the Rrrim! Do you want me to be HOMELESS, Rrroll? IS that what you WANT? FOR FUCK’S SAKE!
Ok, so that was my current mind-set. And, just when I was thinking that I should probably give up on rrroll up the rrrim forever, because my eyes are already blood shot from all the caffeine and my blood pressure is slowly rising from rrroll rrrage, and I never win, and then I get all strung out and crazy on the caffeine…just when I was thinking all that, I won a free coffee this morning.
Rrroll, you are one tricksy bitch. You are manipulative. You are emotionally abusive. You only hit me because you love me.
2/35, baby!!! I can’t quit now!
All I have done in the past month is study, write essays, and suck. I never go out, which means I have no human contact, and I sit at home each night in my chocolate-stained sweatpants, growing a hump from hunching over my laptop. I hate myself.
So, I decided to take a much-needed study break on Friday after presenting a very difficult seminar in my class that afternoon. I was very tired, but I still put on restrictive pants and lip gloss and headed over to TheCrazy’s for some drinking fun.
Ok. So, apparently one month of sobriety is all it takes for one’s alcohol tolerance to plummet. After 2 drinks at TheCrazy’s I had already:
- turned on her karaoke machine and belted out my favourite hits, but changed all of the words of the songs to be about AIDS. Ie., PRESSURE!!! Pushing down on ME! Because I have the AIDS! Pushing down on YOU! THIS IS OUR LAST DANCE! BECAUSE I HAVE AIDS! THIS IS OUR LAST CHANCE…PRESSURE! (dumdadumdadaAIDS).
- Given FauxHawk approx 4 wet-willies, one lick to the head, and various ear-kisses whilst whispering “I FEEL LOVING…LUCKY BOY”.
- Cried to TOP, because apparently a lack of sleep makes me think my life is tragic.
After 4 drinks, I had:
- yelled at FauxHawk, in the bar, for not loving me enough.
- Given approx 4 wet willies, one lick to the head, and various ear-kisses…to the TheCrazy.
- made us stop for Poutine at 3am, and made audible sex sounds as I slurped delicious gravy down my throat.
- Threw up said Poutine in FauxHawk’s shitter approx 20 minutes later.
- cried because I threw up instead of having sex.
Ok, so I think the lesson here is that I probably shouldn’t drink until I finish the school term, sleep for a week, and invest in some serious psychotherapy.
I feel scarred re-hashing this, but I’m going to try to be strong.
My landlord decided that March 1st = Spring, and Spring = no need for heat, so I have literally been freezing my fucking ass off in my apartment every day/night. So much so, that I can’t sleep at night because I’m so cold. I lie in bed under 3 blankets, with my hoodie sweatshirt on, the hood pulled over my face, curled into a ball, grasping the cat in an attempt to suck out his body-heat, and praying for summer.
My sister suggested that I use a sleeping bag as another extra blanket, and I did. And it has been wonderful. I can almost sleep through the night now. Almost.
But this comfort comes at a steep price.
You see, my sleeping bag is nylon, and Milo really enjoys the texture of nylon on his mangy fur. To the point where he rapes the sleeping bag every night.
For the past week, I have endured kitty-rapes before I go to sleep each night. I get into bed, huddle beneath the 3 blankets plus sleeping bag, and then…the loud purring starts. And then I feel him crawling on top of me. And then…the humping. The humping and the purring. When I try to shove him off of me, he bites. So I endure it. I lie there and float above my own body, looking down on that sad girl being molested by her cat. The tough me tells the being-raped-me that it’s ok, that it will be over soon, and to be a brave girl. Then I come to 5-10 minutes later, confused and disoriented.
Ok, maybe I stole that list bit from the “multiple personality disorder” section of my old psyc textbook, but still.
I’m a victim.
4. Commie newspaper = Dead
Remember the commie paper I occasionally write for? Well, it died. RIP, weird commie alternative news source with large focus on lesbian activities.
Of course, the paper died AFTER I submitted a huge article on the world’s water crisis, but BEFORE they published it. So, that painful-to-write article is now lost in limbo, never to be published, never to inform the masses (ie. The 20 hippies who read the paper) of the conspiracy that the USA is stealing our water. Pity.
Of course, I only wrote for this paper because it gave me good writing experience, but I am still sad about its death. I don’t even know why it died, but I guess I have to make peace and move on.
Commie paper, I salute you.
5. TheBoss = Consistently Inappropriate
My office-mates and I went out for dinner with TheBoss this weekend. He wanted to treat us. How special.
After exactly 1 beer, here is the conversation TheBoss regaled us with:
ThePeach: So, when are we getting that new software for the lab?
TheBoss: Wow…fat chicks.
TheBoss: Fat chicks, man, they’re the best.
TheBoss: Fat chicks…they will do ANYTHING you want. You know, sexually.
ThePeach: OfficeMate, am I hallucinating this or is it really happening?
TheBoss: ANYTHING YOU WANT.
OfficeMate: It’s happening.
TheBoss: Fat chicks are kinky, man. And desperate. All the care about is pleasing you, and they will do anything you want because they are so afraid that you’ll leave them.
TheBoss: If you can marry a fat, ugly chick, you’re set for life. You can do whatever you want to them, and they’ll still do whatever they can to please you sexually. Oh, man!
ThePeach: And you’re wife…she’s…?
TheBoss: She’s straddling the fence.
I do love our friendly lab dinners.
6. Racist Jokes = Not Appropriate in English Seminars
So, sometimes I can be a troublesome bitch who likes to stick it to the man, shake up institutions, etc. I am in a 4th year English seminar about Native Literature, and the class is full of P.C., conservative, rich, mouthy, stuck-up bitches. Some of you might recall how well-liked I am in that class after making comments like these.
So, I had to give a 40 minute seminar presentation based on another book for the class, and I decided “what the fuck…let’s shake these hard-assed bitches up.” The topic I chose to address was political correctness, and I actually had created a very intelligent argument about how being overly concerned with political correctness victimizes minority cultures by assuming that they need our protection, and this victimization leads to alienation, which results in a wider gap between a mutual understanding for separate cultures. My point was that we need to question WHY being non-pc is so shocking, and whether it’s ok to laugh along with another culture when they make self-deprecating jokes about themselves.
And, to get the ball rolling, I opened my seminar by telling the following joke:
“Two Indian guys walk out of a bar…hey, it could happen!”
Oh my god. You should have seen the looks of horror on my classmates’ faces. I wish I had taken a picture so I could post the image of 40 little princesses in leggings staring at me with open-mouthed terror, getting ready to speed-dial the human rights office on me. It was amazing.
Luckily, I pointed out that this joke was written by a Native man (the author of the book I was presenting, actually), which saved me from possible expulsion and, probably, stoning. And given my point that our society is so wired to be PC that when a person of another culture pokes fun at itself we react with horror instead of the appreciative humor they would desire, my joke was actually fitting and my prof loved it.
I think I got an A. And the reputation amongst my classmates of being some kind of witch. First I refuse to worship their god of uggs or don their uniform of leggings under jumpers, and then I say intelligent things that confuse them. Expect to hear about some chick at UniversityTown University being burnt at the stake any day now.
7. ThePeach = Successful?
My 3-year slump of existentialism, depressions, and soul-searching is OVER.
I got into grad school!!!! For Journalism!!
I don’t…even know…how to express…happiness??
As of Fall 2008, I will be enrolled in a 2-year Journalism degree at the Masters level. I will be learning how to WRITE FOR A LIVING! Bitches, this is a dream come true. It was a long shot to get accepted because I only have a limited amount of journalism experience (thank you commie newspaper, RIP), and my undergrad degrees don’t fit the typical profile for Journalism studies. BUT the admissions guys said they loved my writing and believe I have a real future in this! So much so, that they gave me early admissions. Jesus Christ, when will somebody teach me how to do a cartwheel, for fuck’s sake!?
Oh, and did I mention that this means I get to QUIT MY JOB FOREVER as of August 1st? I planned on hiring a barbershop quartet to tell TheBoss that I would be leaving, but the logistics were just too hard, so instead I emailed him – HA.
Now, there is one minor thing I should mention.
I have to move away from UniversityTown.
I know. It’s a shock. But the program I got into is in another city, at a school with one of the best Journalism program in the country. So, I have to move. Luckily, the city is only an hour and a half away from UniversityTown, so I can still come back to visit TigerCat and the Hawk. Also, the city I am moving to just happens to be the home of non other than my Father and my Grandfather. I expect my monthly brunches to be moved up to weekly, and my jam acquisition rate to increase by approx. 1000%.
Ohhh bitches, changes are a’comin’. In 5 months this blog is going to enter a whole new phase: The CapitalCity years. The living as a poor student years. The smothering by Grandpa years. The learning how to be an actual writer years. And the long-distance relationship years.
I’m excited. Are you?