Friday, April 28, 2006
or
Fatkins
What do you do when money can't buy you the depth of personality necessary to be accepted to Harvard University? Write a book of course! So what if you're a talentless hack. Just plagerize. Authors do it all the time, right? It's not like anyone will notice.
WRONG.
Poor poor Kaavya Viswanathan. She had it all. Almost. Too bad she doesn't have the creativity to . . . oh, I don't know, come up with orginal material? More similarities here.
Actually, I do feel a little bad for her. Something tells me that her parents have been riding her all the way to town and back on this one. First off, someone who isn't enough of a self-starter to get into Harvard on the first round is NOT going to have the gumption to put together a memoir. Second, just listen to her apology: "While the central stories of my book and hers are completely different, I wasn't aware of how much I may have internalized Ms. McCafferty's words. I am a huge fan of her work and can honestly say that any phrasing similarities between her works and mine were completely unintentional and unconscious." God, that just reeks of damage control. I betcha Daddy and Mummy have a panel of consultants on this one. Whooo!
In other news, a vegan diet just doesn't satisfy my misplaced control issues the way it used to. I'm thinking about doing Atkins. Seriously. I'm not kidding. If I'm lucky, ketosis will make me popular and successful. Huh? Right, right? Thoughts?
SHAZAM!
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
or
Five Hours, Six Dyes, and Twenty-Five Square Feet of Foil Later . . .
Sometimes, gentle readers, I have a little too much time on my hands. A little little too much creativity.
And other times, I have just enough.
BEHOLD, my latest masterpiece - a head-full of RAINBOW colored hair.
But wait, it gets better. Did I mention that it's a UV reactive rainbow?
That's right. I pwn all. The color won't be this lovely for more than a few washes, but oh well. It's not a permanent change, anyhow.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
or
Christmas In July . . . And August, September, November . . .
Months ago, during a dicussion on horrible tattoos, Zack described the poorly chosen ink on his ex-roomate's back. We'll call the ex-roomate "Carmuffin," which, believe it or not, is a decent phonetic approximation of his real name.
Carmuffin apparently enjoys celebrating Christmas. On his shoulderblade (I don't recall which) he has a tattoo of a candy cane. A candy cane, ladies and gentlemen.
Whenever I feel glum, I stop and think of Carmuffin's tattoo. I try to imagine the circumstances under which a young soldier would venture into a tattoo parlor, scope the flash on the wall for the perfect candy cane (which would take a while, considering their popularity as a design), and pay upwards of a hundred dollars to have it emblazoned permanently upon his back. I imagine the glory of the finished product. What the boys at poker night must have said.
And I laugh. Not out of spite, but simply because I will never understand.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
or
Carsick
Gentle readers, do you know how hard it is to live a normal adult life in America without a car? Well, outside of New York City? Murder. I'm tellin' ya. And it ain't like high school, were I can just gnaw at Mom and Dad's patience until one of them tells me to get lost already and throws the keys at my head. (Note for the humor impaired: the previous statement is a hyperbole included for comedic effect)
So I've decided to take the van - the Old Flaming Asshole, the shit-box Aerostar, my one true love - back to Saint Louis. I'll be flying down to houston friday evening. Hopefully Zack and I will get to spend some quality time bouncing off the walls. And then, early sunday morning, I will drive the van for 14 hours.
Oooh, I'm not looking forward to this one. No sir-ee-bob.
I don't do well on car trips, gentle readers. I really don't. 14 hours in a steel box. I get motion sick. I get nervous. Oh, this is gonna be a grand old time - I can FEEL IT.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
or
I'm Not Pregnant, But Thanks For Asking
Yup. I got married on saturday. I did it. Or rather we did it - Zack and I. Wow, I'm . . . not single any more. Despite the fact that we live a thousand miles apart from each other, I am totally thrilled. I thought this day would never come. First a courthouse ceremony, then a reception of sorts at Kobe Japanese steakhouse. Awesome times were had.
You don't believe me, gentle readers? Allow me to rub your nose in some photos. Because I can. I am, after all, the bride. Carte blanche to be self-indulgent (although, I've never really restrained myself before).
Joyous occasions!!!
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
or
Sour Grapes
*Sigh* What's a girl to do? You're so very very predictable:
"You'll never know. But you cannot say I never told you. Nor did I avoid trying. I hid such power in the puzzles, but it mattered not. You didn't have the time or desire to decipher them.
"Maybe I only truly wanted you if you wanted me badly enough. And you didn't. So I'll stifle the desires. I'll choke the emotions. Not to kill them, that may be dangerous. Just to send them into a coma. Or into catatonia. Either way, they will drift away. You're right. I'll be free. But not instantly. It will take time to dwell on the choices you've made. The actions you've taken. But in that dwelling, the fireplace is lit. The cold stone is warming, slowly...
"I can't avoid music that reminds me of you, but I refuse to avoid music. You're never going to read this. And no one will ever tell you. But still I feel the satisfaction. Good enough."
Do me a favor and keep it to yourself. Please. I don't need to hear this.
Friday, April 07, 2006
or
Go For The Gold
I've found my new calling, gentle readers. I'm going to become an athelete. There is an event that I believe I'm cut out for 100%:
New to the X-games this year, EXTREME SELF-PITY promises to be a stunning success. Both judges and competators express their utmost excitement at being a part of this ground-breaking competition.
Although individuals have enjoyed extreme self-pity for millenia, the sport as we know it today developed in England during the late 1800's as an offshoot of the Gothic literary movement. The craze quickly reached every corner of the Western world. Through the early 20th century America, extreme self-pity was primarily associated with racial minority groups and isolated freaks. It wasn't until prominent subcultures during the 1980's popularized the practice that the American public began to recognize it as a legitimate athletic event.
"It's not like no one has ever done this before," says Melanie Anchonly, 33. "'I mean, I'm no one special, just because I'm competing at the X-games. Don't look at me; I'm not wearing make-up."
By 2000, high schools nation-wide began to sponsor after-school clubs for students who wished to persue extreme self-pity.
"We used to get together on Friday nights, when everyone else was out on a date or something," says Jason Wimple, 20, of his high school program. "Cause what else were we supposed to do? Those so-called 'popular' kids back then never knew how much damage they were doing. Some of us will never be the same. I know I won't. Thanks to those jackasses, I never formed a stable self-concept."
This year's X-games marks the United State's first nation-wide professional competition in Extreme Self-Pity.
Competators must participate in five sub-events to qualify for placement: Extended Fetal Position, Weeping, Freestyle Ploys for Negative Attention, Self-Destruction, and Marathon Ranting.
In the spirit of the event, drug testing has been suspended.
God, I've been practicing this for years. Where do I sign up?
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Zack Rosales. Yes, the guy who took me clubbing over spring break. Very sexy, no? Well, roll those tongues back up, ladies, because he's soon to be off the market. Heh. We will be getting hitched in the courthouse across the street from the CVS where we met, which I find charming.
Please direct questions and public outcry to the comments feature.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
In case you have been clinically dead for the last month (or are not a Wash U student, which in any case, means the same thing) Art Prom was last saturday. I decided to go at the last minute. At 10pm, I slapped on my tightest corset and highest heels, lined my eyes, and ran to the B-school to meet Zi and Hubert, my consorts for the evening.
It was a good time. I won't detail the goings on, but this picture pretty much covers it:
That, and I vaguely remember standing on the front lawn of the Magic House (a children's museum), swinging my brassiere around my head, screaming "I'M GOING TO BURN MY BRA! I'M GONNA BURN MY FUCKING BRA!!!! WHO HAS A LIGHT?" The spectators cheered. Some guy had a book of matches. And lo, the bra was burned, and I struck a heartfelt blow against the patriarchy.
"Soused" isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
or
Myspace - Not Just For Stalking Your Ex Anymore
And now, gentle readers, an exercise in autofellatio.
No. Sorry. I will instead recount the story of how Zack and I first met. Haha!
CNN version:
Zack and I ran into each other at CVS about two years ago. There was an instant mutual attraction. We never exchanged numbers, however. Sometime in December, Zack found me on myspace. We arranged to meet and found that the connection was still there. And the rest is history.
Extended Self-Indulgent Narrative:
When I was 17, a junior in high school, I lived in a house just down the street from a CVS on the corner of Cypresswood and Stuebner Airline road. One evening, my mom burst into the house and said "Larkin. LARKIN! Put some make-up on NOW and come with me to the pharmacy."
"What the fuck, mom."
"Seriously. Make yourself pretty and come with me to CVS. There's a Pharmacist there that you HAVE to see. Trust me."
I thought she was insane, but I did as she said, anyway. What did I have to lose?
When we got there, she told me to go to the Pharmacy counter and pick up our family's prescriptions. Grudgingly, I made my way to the back of the store. I got in line. I waited. This is stupid, I thought. Who am I supposed to be looking for?
Suddenly, my eyes fell upon a face that stopped my heart dead in its tracks. I caught a glimpse of enormous dark eyes set above lofty cheekbones. Dark hair. He turned and disappeared into the shelves behind the counter. Without taking my eyes from the point of his disappearance, I moved sideways, craning my neck in hopes of a second look.
I knocked over a candy display. Now everyone in the store was looking at ME.
Appalled, I set the cardboard fixture and its cellophane-wrapped contents to rights as quickly as I could, keeping one eye on the counter all the while. As soon as I finished, the man returned. And all I could do was stare.
After what seemed like an age, I reached the front of the line. I spoke to the man. I smiled. He smiled back. I read his nametag. Zack. He gave me the pills and bottles. I thanked him all too kindly. As I left, I swallowed my heart.
He was there the next week. And this time, I was the only patron at the Pharmacy. I introduced myself, and we talked for some minutes about little in particular. It was all I could do to keep from fainting. He smiled and smiled. I began to hope . . . hope against hope . . . that maybe . . .
Before I left, I mustered the nerve to ask him out for a cup of coffee when he got off work. His face fell.
"I have a girlfriend."
The universe collapsed. I felt like such an idiot. So I took off like a shot. How could I have ever thought I'd get a guy like that? He's smart. He's a club promoter. He's handsome. He's charismatic. Of course he has a girl. Stupid stupid stupid Larkin.
I didn't come back for three weeks. But even though I stayed away, I couldn't get him out of my head. I needed resolution. The games weren't over. So I decided to play hardball.
I took my favorite book of short stories - a dog-eared copy of "Welcome to the Monkey House" by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. - and began to underline significant passages. I made footnotes. I wrote in the margins. I am, to this day, not entirely sure what I was trying to do. Compose a secret message, perhaps. At any rate, I wrote my email and name under the front cover and went to the Pharmacy to give it to him.
But he wasn't there.
And the next week. Nothing. No dice. I asked the Pharmacist on duty what had happened to Zack. She said he'd been relocated.
And that was that. Biting my lip, I left the CVS, flinging "Welcome to the Monkey House" into a public garbage pail as I passed.
I got over it. But I didn't forget him. Anywhere I went, I kept an eye out. Even when I moved to Saint Louis, part of me hoped that I'd find him again in a busy supermarket, leaning against the wall of a local club, or walking down the Delmar Loop with a pack of hipsters.
Years later, at college, I received a myspace message from a stranger. He was apologetic - afraid that I would consider him a stalker - but did I perhaps remember a certain Pharmacy tech from the CVS on Cypresswood and Stuebner?
I did.
He had remembered my name after all that time and, once he realized that one can search for people on myspace, entered it into the field. Lo. There I was. He had been looking for me, too. The search was over.
We arranged to meet on Christmas night. Together, we went to Havok and had a splendid time. I found him intelligent and charismatic. We became fast friends.
And, well, so as not to repeat myself, the rest is history.
or
Aquamawhat?
It may, gentle readers, be time for a change. A change of hair color. My hair has been dark blue for so long, that I haven't been surprised by my reflection in years. (For those of you who don't change your haircolor every 4 minutes, I will tell you that there's a certain degree of pleasure in realizing with shock that the chartreuse-headed creature in the mirror is, in fact, you.)
I have my own ideas about what I should do, but for the sake of pleasing the masses, I'd love to have people's opinions.
In the comments feature, please leave your vote:
1. Keep the same 4-toned indigo blue!
2. Red
3. Yellow
4. Pink
5. Purple
6. Aqua
7. Green
8. White
9. Black
10. A combination of colors (elaborate)
11. OTHER (elaborate)
As if I listen to you fuckers, anyhow. Heh.
