Attack of the Ego Rapists

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.

EnRaid!

So remember back when I posted about holding onto my anger?

Of course you don't, read it here (If you'd like).

So in the midst, of finals, I have to say: I AM PISSED OFF.

Now, in my past post I mentioned how I glorious it was to be fueled on a sort of anger that I had harnessed into a mechanism of productivity. THIS time, this anger is a machine of pure and utter madness. Obviously, I thought I should hop on the Internet and explain why I find this current state of haphazard emotion particularly luxurious.

When a woman like myself reacts, as I shall term the euphemism, it is (unless you are the male counterpart) quite a magnificent thing to witness. For instance, as I boiled and steamed pacing my room, a Lady Gaga song came on my Pandora radio. Nobody could have (or would want to) seen those moves coming. Also, when I went to brush my teeth I squeezed the toothpaste very tightly. As in I now have Crest Nighttime White all over my sink. My hand is minty fresh.

I also re-Raided my entire room. I was furious! And now the queen of the ant colony is too, because all her knights in shining armor are KAPUT. Now, nearing death by pesticide asphyxiation, my rage has subdued to the point of reflection.

It just gets me all twisty in the knickers when the first reaction is the wrong one. I understand that it is usually the "irrational"and "dramatic", but then it seems like everyday is a constant battle to essentially subdue yourself. Sometimes I really feel kindred with the people go to communes or become hermits. But even then! Let's postulate that its just a normal day at the commune and you're weeding the carrot garden and fellow inhabitor Bluelight Skyhawk tells you that row 5 isn't properly weeded. You've just spent the morning doing meditation and are really exhausted from accessing your 4th chakra; as you yank row 5's leafy green weeds up from the ground tell me you wouldn't be horribly tempted to mutter, "What the fuck kind of name is Blue Light Skyhawk anyway."

It is unfortunate that I feel this way also because I often employ the term "please code your language" or the exxxxtrememly annoying "consider your audience" whenever I have a disagreement with a person (cough boyfriend cough). I often discuss with my mother about how important it is to pick your words if you are truly serious about getting your point across. That is, reiterating what you really want to say in careful and sophisticated language as to not incite reaction but rather understanding.

So nowwww, when what I really want to do is throw a a small coffee table off the beach cliff across my street and lip sync "You're so Vain" in a black catsuit while pie-ing somebody in the face, I am eating my words!

Uch, they taste like Raid.

Amuse your Bush

It's sort of late and I should be getting to bed. Instead I want to talk on my Internet soapbox about a problem that has been plaguing me recently: The 4 p.m. STARVATION MODE.

I am less than awesome at following the meal time regimen of thin girls. It will be three thirty p.m. and I'm like Whut up dinner?! When I am trying to eat like a normal American I will tell myself, just hold on. You can make it to 5:30. Then you can start making dinner. (When I have made dinner in those situations its like Gollum with the Precious. I'm trying to open a can of dinner but the urge to rip open the thin metal with my teeth and paint my body with stripes of jalapeno refried beans overwhelms my hand-eye coordination). Today was one of those days. After coming home from class at 5:25 and not having dinner till 7 (my sister and I made plans) I was Golluming the eff out. I then ate ice cream out of the carton like a heathen, watching the Bachelor, hiding. HELLO SAD LIFE.

Therefore, I think I need to start implementing a 4 p.m "snack." And by snack I mean SMALL portion of something HEALTHY not like what I would normally gravitate toward aka in-an-out burger/spicy yellowtail roll/fish taco/and entire bag of Sunchips. That is not a snack, that is dinner.

So today in my Southern Literature class whilst my teacher passionately explained Richard Wright's childhood, I sat doodling a list of delicious and light 4 p.m. mini meals. I like the idea of the term amuse-bouche but I always, always want to make the amuse your bush joke, which is just gross. So IMA (in homage to the way my roommate texts) make my own term. Since its sort of a single person appetizer my 4 p.m. food shall be christened: PETIBOUCHE

Here are some Petis I wrote down:

-Heirloom tomato slices spread with spicy hummus with fresh cracked pepper

-mini smoothie (I like banana, greek yogurt, honey, and ice. my awesome friend alex b's concoction)

-1/2 avocado with feta chunks good olive oil and balsamic

-Tea Sandwich! 1 slice toasted bread, cream cheese, cucumbers, salt

Okay so they are sort of healthy. But I like the idea of not having to heat anything up/it being one thing to consume, not like a bag of pita chips that "oh I'm just going to have a couple." PSH. Show me a person who eats 2 Parmesan Garlic Pita Chips and I will show you a MARTYR. Anybody have any other ideas for a petibouche (the term is growing on me)?

Goodnight. I feel like tonight I will dream in avocados.

Image via israelity.com

Stradlater can go to hell for all I care!

I am reading Catcher in the Rye. For the first time! I can't believe I've never read it. Salinger's creation/narrative voice is astounding. Nobody says things like Holden Caufield, he's almost painfully unique. It got me thinking about who I think are currently distinctive narrative voices in a pop culture-y/my generation kind of way. I mean the authors behind the websites and blogs that make my essay due tomorrow on southern literature suck 10x more than it should.

DListed: My friend told me about this harbinger of harrowing hilariousness (had to go for it.) He is unreal. I don't think my eyes have ever peeled back into my skull from simply reading his no-holds-bar potty porny humor posts that go through the sordid details of the celebrity world. My fav are what he dubs his topics/victims/stars. Lindsey Lohan's mom is White Oprah, Lady Gaga is Lady Caca, Anderson Cooper is Mah Boo, and Rachel Zoe as the Chupacabre. Seriously I am snorting just remembering the names (and I am not even referencing, its all from memory! shows how powerful his catchphrases are). Plus Ru Paul mentioned DListed as one of his his most beloved blogs during Ru Paul's Drag Race and that bitch is fabulous.

Very Mary Kate: The web series by Elaine Carroll is like my cat nip, especially when there is a paper to be written. I wonder if that is going to be a problem in the future: virtual catnip. Like there will be 19 year olds in Balmain's Fall 2021 silicone body suits erupting in joyous spasms because of some strange 3D image projected in their father's study? Hm that was an oddly specific scenario. ANYWAYYY it's not just funny (I think, at least) because she is making fun of how thin/strange/rich/ridiculous Mary Kate is (which is an old joke, sort of. and tired), she has her own voice. Her cadence, phrasings, and rhythms are original and subtle. I love Bodyguard (the character and the episode). In the beginning of that episode, when she creepily scratches on the door instead of knocking?!?! I had to pause it to laugh.

Tavi: Okay okay so this might be a cliche choice, but this mini girl is tight. Even those who are not into fashion and find such blogs as annoying as when your frosted flakes lose their crunch; she is thirteen and hilarious! There is no way in hell I was that funny when I was thirteen. I'm pretty sure this was my phase where my bff and I used to write full length Acapella musicals. And force our younger sisters to be the supporting roles while we performed them on makeshift living room sets for yes, our parents. There is a recent post where she keeps referencing her TEEN PRETENSION as she dubs it. C'mon. Were you so self-referential when you were little? Did you wear Prada? She is really descriptive, I honestly enjoy reading how she verbalizes detail.

These people could not really be compared to some masterful storytellers like Joseph Conrad, Harper Lee, Phillip Gourevitch, or (last one I promise) Artie Spiegleman. People whom I still cannot really comprehend the magnitude of their abilities. But they reflect something about the way I am thinking and existing in my current space. And I think remembering what made you laugh can be very telling about what kind of place you were in. THANK GOD FOR BLOGZ.

Image via verymarykate.com.

Oh Coco, you Crazy!

CHANELLO! I knew Chanel put their illustrious Double C's on everything from surfboards to motorscooters (?) but I think this is rather dope, a line of FAUX TATTS. Perhaps I am only so excited because I really love FAUX TATTS. In fact last weekend my mother came to visit me and we went on an ill-fated for her shopping spree in Albertson's and I found these awful awful "Bling" tattoo sheets and would not let up until she relented to purchase them. Then us girls spent the next morning adorning our wrists and backs with tennis bracelets, money signs, diamonds, and sapphires (there was a RIM tattoo, erm we left that one.) So if I am willing to plaster myself with Albertson's brand flashies, Chanel's swallow-dragging-a-rosary lovely neck thing makes me want to do laundry I'm so happy. However these haute body markings don't come cheap (does anything, ever?) it's $75 for 55 different designs. LE SIGH. Life is hard. To chanel tatt or not to chanel tatt?

But oh! Wouldn't they be fun to wear for Spring?? Buy them here

Image Via stylelist.com

Yeah! Yeah!

Ach tu Liebe France Gall! She was/is forever a French yé-yé girl who was arguably the most successful of the bunch. Yé-yé girls were a Euro phenonmenon in the 60's, specifically in France, Spain, and Quebec. They were young (France was 16 when she had her first hit) women who sang about first love, boys, and things of a coequettish nature like licking lollipops. Tre Lolita! They represented something about generation 60's with their perhaps white lipstick, babydoll dresses, and and soft sing-speak. Anyway France Gall is adorable to have on a playlist. Good dinner party music. Not that I throw many a dinner party but when I do, France Gall will be speak-singing in the background and all my friends who haven't heard me put her on will say Who is this?. Sacré Charlemagne!

Photo Cred: withmymonosynth

The day I met David Sedaris

I love David Sedaris. I love him so much I can't stand when he is referenced unless it is an impeccable one; a great addition to the conversation. I once sat sulking after reading a blog comment about how the blogger's tone was very David Sedaris. No it f8cking wasn't! The man is a god of hilarity. You work at Starbucks.

I love David Sedaris so much that halfway through Naked I began to remember my childhood in Raleigh, North Carolina. I remembered the sound of ice cubes in my mother's glass of scotch, the stink of shoe polish dripping down my face. When i put the book down to go brush my teeth, I was shocked to see a freckled and frizzy haired young lady of 20 staring back at me. Sonia? You are suddenly not a 5'7 blond gay who recently quit smoking?

I love David Sedaris so much I read his books to comfort me when I am feeling bad about myself. One time I got dumped and really drunk. The amount of time I laid in bed the next day made me delirious. As I lay there reading Me Talk Pretty One Day and rolling around laughing so hard I thought "I am going to be so successful."

Last year the man I love so much came to my college town and I scrambled to get terrible seats to the reading. It was hilarious, my sister and I gripped one another the entire time he was on stage, laughing really loudly. Every so often we would turn and face each other, to make sure each of us not only got the joke, but understood exactly how funny it was.

Afterwards she and I waited like eager groupies to have him sign the one copy we brought of Naked. Looking back, we should have brought two separate books; we asked him to put both of our names. To what? Pass back and forth?

Meeting David Sedaris was one of the more sublime experiences of my life. And by sublime I don't mean a moment of pure and unadulterated joy (over used phrase btw) I mean Wordsworth's mind blown reaction to the Swiss Alps. As in I was the English Romantic poet and David Sedaris was a Swiss Alp and I was standing at the foot of it/him, terrified, impressed, and sweaty at the same time.

Thus in my fav vintage dress and strappy Calvin heels, my sister and I sheepishly handed over our book (She wears the dress, and I stay home!) I remember he was wearing a black and white polka dotted tie and eating from a variety of those sandwich/fruit and cheese platters that once made me sick on a flight to Denver. Here is an excerpt from my journal about how our interaction went. (Context: Somehow David Sedaris, my sister, and I got to talking about how we grew up. Our father was in the military so I have lived in New Jersey, Hawaii, and Virgina before my father retired in California)

-saw david Sedaris on Saturday. He was amazing amazing and after we went to get our book signed. was so nervous I felt drunk and high. He said Iceland would have been interesting instead of Hawaii. A) I think I made the fact that we could have gone to Iceland up and B) I said “yeah, I am kind of bummed we didn’t go there” NO YOU ARE NOT SONIA, YOU ONLY SAID THAT BC DAVID SEDARIS SAID THAT WOULD BE INTERESTING

He makes a point of giving his fans a token of appreciation in the form of a little gag gift. He also does not give the gifts to anyone over 18 because, well, I am not sure, but that's the rule. Minors get swag.

He handed Sash's a condom and made a joke about anal sex which I am disappointed that I can't remember, I know the large security guard was snickering and Sash and I were doing that nervous, horsey giggle trying not to lapse into hysteria because David fucking Sedaris made an anal sex joke to and maybe even for us. And then, the crowning jewel of moments for my silly life happened when David Sedaris, despite my age (20), bestowed upon me a gift because "she's so charming as well." He gave me a fake amputated finger, one of those gag-ish Halloween plastic and rubber things that people adorn tables and maybe even like a mantle with during the fall season. I still have it; it's my ring holder.

I am very happy that I did meet David Sedaris even though I am still insecure that "charming" meant "please stop looking at me like that." However, I think I am glad a lot of the writers I so admire are dead.