Friday, November 27, 2009

MortalCombat is dedicated; hysterical

As usual, most people in my class are suicidal this week.

MC, however, has managed to maintain some semblance of sanity in a time of end-of-term assignments, no sleep, and crying over soya sauce bottles that just won’t open. She is a beacon of strength and productivity. She gave me a box of KD and the will to live this afternoon.

I spent today lying on the couch, wallowing in the dark and twisty parts of my mind, and also watching “The L Word.” MC spent the day trying to come up with an idea for her participant-observation story for our writing class. She sent a few ideas to our prof, who would then immediately write back snippy answers about how uncreative MC’s ideas were.

After the prof vetoed another one of MCs idea, MC texted me tonight to ask if she could borrow some bus tickets. I told her to come upstairs and grab some. I paused the lesbian porn.

Enter MC. And the crazy eyes.

“I’m going to Syracuse tomorrow.”

She stared at me intently.

I’m sorry. You’re doing WHAT and WHY?

“I’m going to Syracuse tomorrow.”

I looked into her crazy eyes, open wide and bulging with intensity. I realized she was not joking.

“I’m going to Syracuse at 8am. I just bought a bus ticket. I’m doing my participant-observation piece on Canadians who go to the US to shop on Black Friday.”

Oh. Kay.

“Have you run this idea past our prof?”

Her eyes flashed with madness. I took a step backwards,


Oh. Kay.

“So, let me get this straight. In the 15 minutes since our prof vetoed your last idea, you booked a bus ticket to Syracuse and are now going to the US tomorrow morning at 8am?”


And then the hysterical laughter started. I was hunched over clutching my ribs and gasping for air, I was laughing so hard. MC was shaking and gripping her knees, her long hair draping the floor. We laughed for about 10 minutes straight.

Then I looked up and MC was crying like a crazy lady.

Why doesn’t she like me?? Why is our prof so mean to me?? I don’t know what I did wrong!! I go to every class! I even do the fucking reeeeeeadings!! And now I have to go to Syyyyyracuuuuuse!!!”

I ran up to her and hugged her. She sobbed into my shoulder.

“At least you’ll get to go shopping?”

“I don’t even have any American money!”

This brought on another 10 minutes of bladder-clutching laughter. I told MC she had better text me the next morning so I knew she was still alive.

“I’ll text you from the bus! It’s 3 hours each way!”

Then her eyes welled up with tears again.

Journalism school: don’t do it.


Monday, November 23, 2009

ThePeach is defeated by Soya Sauce; life

I’ve hit new levels of pathetic.

Tonight I had a big seminar presentation based on two long articles. One of them was easy, one of them was dense. I stayed up until 3am trying to understand the dense one and making conversation points to bring up with the class. Today, 30 seconds into my seminar, my professor informed me that I was presenting on the wrong article, and one of them was not actually part of my assignment: the dense one.

So, that sucked.

But I shook it off. Forged ahead with the other article, cheeks blazing with shame. During my class break I sprinted to the coffee shop to get an anti-suicide cookie. They were out of cookies.

That also sucked.

When class finally ended I slunk home and decided to make my first meal of the day. It was 9:30 pm.

No big deal.

I sautéed my vegetables. Boiled my noodles. Got out the Soya sauce to douse the veggies in salt.

The lid wouldn’t come off.

I tried turning it both ways. Running it under hot water. Using a cloth. I even took a knife to the fucker and almost lost a finger. I grunted like a caveman trying to figure out how to make fire. I left it alone for a few minutes, hoping I was just imagining that it wouldn’t open. I started talking out loud.

“Why?” I asked the bottle. “Why?”

I jabbed it with a spoon. I tried another cloth. I twisted so hard I almost snapped my wrist.

“Why?” I whimpered. “Whyyyy?”

The veggies started going limp. The noodles were over cooked. I rammed the bottle on the side of the counter, hoping to loosen something. I turned it both ways. I screamed.

“WHY??” I sobbed. “WHYYYY???”

I turned off the frying pan. I turned off the pot full of soggy, bloated noodles. I lay on the couch and weeped for 35 minutes.

Spaz called.

Spaz: I called because I thought you might be feeling sad. It’s easy to get sad after night class.
ThePeach: AHHHEEEESOOOOOYSAUUUUCE *hysterical sobbing*
Spaz: …so you *are* sad, then?
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing, muffled by pillow*
Spaz: Are you lonely? What’s wrong?
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing* I…I…I…*hysterical sobbing* I CAN’T OPEN THE SOYA SAUCE!!!! *weeps*
ThePeach: *weeps* I think it’s a metaphor for my stupid pathetic life.
Spaz: How long have you been crying?
ThePeach: *weeps* I’ve been on the couch for 35 minutes.
Spaz: Jesus. How many ex boyfriends did you text during those 35 minutes?
ThePeach: *sobs* TWO!
Spaz: Jesus.
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing* Now I can’t eat dinner.
Spaz: Wait. You never got the lid off?
ThePeach: *sobs* no-o-o-o!
ThePeach:…*sniffle* It’s not funny! I’m staying on this couch until I die.
Spaz: Want to come upstairs and eat cake?
ThePeach: I’ll be upstairs in 30 seconds.

And then I spent another 35 minutes on a couch. But this time I had cake, and Spaz, and no MOTHERFUCKING SOYA SAUCE laughing at me from the kitchen.

It’s been a bad few days. School sucks, life sucks, money sucks, work sucks, and the cat bit my face this morning.

But it took a bottle of Soya Sauce to break me.

Fuck the condiments.


Monday, November 09, 2009

Good morning to you, too.

Cats. They are vengeful little bastards.

I spent the weekend away and, when I got back, Milo was extra loving because he had been so lonely. He head-butted me with affection all night, curled up in a little ball on top of my stomach while I lay in bed, and purred like a monster while I slept. Wittle rat.

But I wasn’t fooled. I knew what was coming once the happiness of having me home again wore off.

Welcome to my Monday morning:

5:45am: Cat wakes up, drags stuffed mouse into the bed, starts pouncing on it on top of my stomach.
6:00am: Grows tired of mouse, but not of jumping on top of my body. Moves to my head. Gallops in place on my face.
6:30am: Howl. Howl. Howl. Howl. HOOOOOOOOOWL PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
6:45am: Resumes jumping on my face.
7:00am: Licks my face with raspy, smelly little cat tongue until I push him onto the floor. Immediately flies back onto the bed with agility of a furry eagle, as if his feet didn’t even hit the floor. Now he’s angry. Resumes howling. Adds biting.
7:30am: Bite. Bite. Bite. BITE. Gnaw.
7:45am: New tactic. Stands in place on my face, paws on eyelids, until I gasp from sensation of eyes being pushed backward into brain and flail about in bed trying to get him off me.
7:46am: I get up. Put on coffee. Cat gallops in circles around my feet.
7:47am: Open door to get newspaper. Cat sprints out the door, side-checking me on the way with such force that I almost fall over. Turns around once to glare at me, and then gallops like a demon stead through the hallways.
7:48am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:50am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:52am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:53am: Cat sprints back into apartment, hitting head on apartment door on the way in. Seems unfazed. Sits down by empty food dish and resumes howling. I feed him.
7:54am: Scarfs food like he just spent 2 years licking dirt in Ethiopia.
7:55am: Jumps into windowsill. Tries to hunt the cars driving by on the street below.
7:56am: Projectile vomits into windowsill.
7:58am: Curls up in a little ball on top of a cloth shopping bag on the kitchen table. Sleeps like angel.
8:00am: I call the vet to make appointment to have Milo put down before lunch.
8:02am: Chip cat vomit out of window tracks using a spoon.

Happy Monday!