Last night I lost my phone at a club, I have an interview for an internship tomorrow, and I am in a BAD MOOD. The memories of $3 dollar Jager shots and lipsynching Britney to a faux-hawked gay across the bar are losing their charm as my hangover gains momentum and I get grumpier. MMmm whiney. Feels SO GOOD.
So in my current state of headache, communication-less, and irregular bowel movement, naturally I begin to ruminate on all the things that have pissed me off in the past week. I don't know what it is about being hungover that makes me just start to steeeamm. Like FUNK! WHY IS MY PILLOWCASE NOT ALIGNED WITH MY PILLOW or SHITBALLS I HATE UNCUT GRASS or MY TOMATOES ARE MUSHY GODDAMMIT However, this week something actually did happened in the basement of my campus's university center that merits more pissyness than mushy vegetables (although that is supremely annoying.) And yes, I am going to rehash it now, on my widely circulated blog.
Tuesday afternoon I was traipsing around where all our overpriced books are sold in mass quantity, hungover, and starting to sweat a bit because there isn't very good circulation down there. The books are stacked in neat but tiny isles in the basement of the the bookstore, and I always got apprehensive descending the stairs to that place (hell, ha get it). I guess it's because know you're about to drop hundreds of dollars, fighting your way through equally annoyed students to pick up a big ass book, only to probably crack that $107 excuse for an educational tool open twice during the quarter. Then when you attempt to sell it back, some bouffant blond with heavy eyeliner looks at you and says wickedly "We no longer use this edition." GROWL.
Anyway I was strolling the ENGLISH isle, and I ran into a classmate of mine whom I know vaguely because we have had quite a few classes together over the years. He is very...verbose. In class he...talks a lot. He is...annoying. He is the kind of manchild who comes up to you after a discussion section and mentions your lack of participation, and then recites what percentage "actively participating" is out of your total grade. Saying, "Damn girl, you were quiet today." IM QUIET EVERYDAY. ITS BECAUSE I USUALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON.
As I walked past him to find my books, we made eye contact. I said hi weakly, and he looks at me with a mixture of recognition and disgust. Then homeboy crinkles his nose as if some foul odor had just drifted up from the graying carpet and says "I was wondering what that smell was."
And I say "what?"
And homeboy says "Are you wearing perfume?"
I sniff my shirt, confusedly.
He reiterates: "Your wearing perfume, are you not?"
I say "uhhh ye, uhh may uhh this morn-ummm"
Then he monologues. "I was wondering what that like powerdy smell was. I mean I'm walking past you and I was like Whoeew (waves hands in front of face as if he is batting away killer bees. My stench is like a killer bee) I mean how much of that stuff do you put on Wheeeeewwwee. You need to tone it down. I mean seriously, take it eassyyy."
I say "..."
What I SHOULD have said is Hey! Buddy! I am sorry my stench is an affront to your nostrils. But that was a rude thing to say, and as the old adage goes, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't spray it. Your hair bugs me. It looks like Jon Goesslin. Or an aged member of the tool academy. Do you know why i said ag-ed? BECAUSE YOUR HAIR IS THINNING.
But I didn't say that. My face just awkwardly crumpled into a pissed expression and I walked away mumbling to myself in the Geology isle pretending to look at Rocks and Mountains! (or whatever it is that they read, I am sure there are more sophisticated titles). Because I still needed my books, I wait fuming, until I heard his spiel on modernism (some innocent asian girl got sucked into conversation) drift up the stairs.
Then I went to the food court and furiously ate Panda Express sushi (don't, by the way) while thinking of all the snappy comebacks I could have retorted with. I have been in quite a few situations where people I don't or barely know confront me on something negative about myself that they think I should be privy to. Which is weird, but my reactions have progressed nicely. I used to cry, then I used to get mad and cry, now I just get mad, laugh, and then excited that have a funny story to tell people I love.
And after this last time, I am going to start writing a list of general yet hilarious comebacks and memorize them. It's my proverbial pepper spray; these potential ego-rapists won't know what hit them. Next time an old lady tells me I look like a slut, I'm going to say "Takes one to know one!"
...Maybe not that one.