People, they're wierd.

I love meeting new people, they're always so interesting, they make me feel interesting. And they make me love those quirks people have that are just enfurating. Lets take a closer look...

I sometimes slip into accents. Its annoying. I know, but its fun, too! I have that stupid All-American newscaster accent that says nothing about where I'm from so I steal. I do say the word "mountain" funny, make fun, but thats not on purpose. Enough about me, lets talk about others.

I'm still connected to one of my freshman roommates via this here interweb. All her away messages and facebook statuses end in "I love you, babe" or "I love my boyfriend" or she addresses him in them saying "boyfriend, blah blah blah I'm uninteresting blah." I haven't seen her in two years, I imagine she does have a boyfriend but what the fuck is his name? I'm totally whigged out by the lack of name, I'd know he existed if she used his name, so Jill what is your boyfriend's name?

I have  a dear friend, who is strongly affilated with the Catholic Church, that can't hold a converstaion without saying "vajayjay." I'm a personal fan of different names for female anatomy but the thing is this dear friend maybe should have been a sleazy director of porn or a creeptastic OB/GYN instead he wears robes and stands at the pupit winking (that is a nervous tick, he's not creepy in the least but it makes it more fun to suggest he is.

I have a roommate who has  boyfriend, said roommate gave me said boyfriends phone number and with said roommate's premission I started texting the boyfriend, nothing too bad just a little suggestive way strange and lots of "...s" we talked about the texts, I managed a straight face. I made it a little more obvious, I made it way obvious. Tonight I sent him a piece of a conversation that we had while making dinner tonight. He hasn't responded yet, so his dense scientific brain hasn't caught on. I have to stop, its getting too wierd, the roommate told me its too wierd.

My fiction professor, I've decided he's in his late 40s, an insanly uncreative man for a creative writing professor, has wierd ideas about dreams. Every class after he decided that he's in love with Justin, who just happens to be growing on me, forgetting the names of the girls, there are 7 of us and none look anything like the others, he puts in his two cents. While explianing that we're not good writers and we don't do this or that right he sticks his hand under his sweater and caresses his chest lovingly. I;m not one to argue the benifits of self intamacies, I stroke my face and pet my hair, but if i were to rub my chest I think that maybe I'd get sideways glances.

There's the 52 state story. Thats not so much quirky as much as evidence that Americans don't know very much about their country. There's others, but I'm getting sleepy and am having trouble remembering. Just know your quirks are good fun and I'm going to continue making fun of them.

The Microfilm Room

Last year, thanks to a friendly history major who actually knows how to use the library, I was introduced to the most wondrous place on Earth: The Microfilms Room. Its the most super handy-dandy spot in the entire old library (which is the second warmest building on the Quad, hence my enjoyment). I use the microfilms room for its secret stash of computers, there is no fighting for time or printers, there are relatively few people who actually use the room for its intended purpose so I very rarely have to give up my spot to someone who needs to read a newspaper from London in 1913, did I mention its warm? Granted today is not one of those days when I need to escape the cold, but I am here anyways because it is still too cold to sit on benches and walls in the sun.

You may be wondering why I'd even bring up my secret hiding spot. Truth is it was outed last night on facebook (Thank You Alan Linic and Facebook). I have been sworn to secrecy about this place, each time I run into a friend or a classmate fiddling with the microfilm machine, pretending that their not using Youtube or peeking at porn (word on the street: that only happens openly in the other library, tacky. Just plain tacky) they look at me in horror and vomit the accusatory "who told you about this place?" and then threaten me.

Cross my heart Matt this is the only telling I have done and seeing as this is both our last semester I think we'll be OK.

The Microfilms Room is a magical place where I find friends, mostly people from my creative writing classes, which is either a coincidence or a creative writing conspiracy, I haven't yet decided, and learn about all kinds of things.

Actually I haven't really learned much about anything in this room. I spend all my time tied to the many "social networking" sites I am socially networking on (ironic).

I have never checked a book out of this library, I have only once looked for a book in this library, I have twice watched movies in the media room but I spend nearly all my break time in The Microfilm Room wasting time. Blame the Internet.

Mother of all Anxiety

My phone rang. I didn't answer it. My mother knew I was unavailable and called anyway. I should have had my phone on silent, I thought I had turned the ringer off, my bad. I was sweating bullets through the identification section of a midterm and didn't need her telling what I forgot to do.

I call her back after the test.

My mom states that she's nearly to the town I live in to visit my grandparents, one of whom is in the hospital, the other's mother is in the hospital and I am too sick to visit with either.

Fine, that's fine.

Then she says "So you're probably going to have a bunk mate for the next week or so." and I nearly died.

I love my mother dearly, she does everything imaginable for me. She is a neat freak. I am a slob.
I don't want my mother in my room examining everything, the pop corn kernels on the floor, the lack of visible carpet, the unfolded clothes, the piles of dirty laundry in my bathroom, the disarray of my bathroom, the beer in the fridge, the grossness that is our kitchen.

Now I understand why my sister pulls her hair out (OK that was low, my mom is not to blame for my sister's Trichotillomania). In all seriousness only a mother can have the kind of affect she has, I dread her seeing the way I live, sloppily. I feel like she'll judge me. I feel like somehow I've disappointed her, no scratch that I know that my slovenly life style disappoints her. She'd walk in and see the books and clothes on the floor and be appalled but the fact that I have sheets on my bed wouldn't matter. I have a clear desk. So what? There is nothing under my bed, who cares? Everything else is disgusting.

Last week I had a different mother run in, my roommates mother. She stayed in our apartment for three days, the entire time fighting with her daughter and making the "common areas" of the apartment impossible to enjoy. While making dinner one night a cloud of smoke covered the apartment (the pan was burning, not the food). We opened the doors and turned on the fans and before too long it was bearable again. The entire time she coughed and hacked in the way that old people do, complaining that I was cooking my food improperly, when the reality is that if I had been using a different pan, on that wasn't way past its prime, one of her daughters pans there wouldn't have been smoke. But alas I cannot use her pans because she can't clean them. But that's beside the point (it pisses me off to no end though) this woman actually went hunting for the bad smell in our apartment. She opened all of our bedroom doors and popped her head in for a sniff (I now lock my door when there are other people in my apartment so that it doesn't happen again) she later revealed the source of the smell... The Whale's room and bathroom! No surprise. None at all. It didn't need to be said out loud, in the same way that I don't need to call her The Whale. We all knew. We live there in the filth.

Mothers don't judge. Other people's mothers stay out of my room.

Spring Break!

Two months later my boss for my school job get back to me and I get to go back to work!!! I need the fundage (remind me later to call my dad and beg $100 off of him because I'm short on rent). 

Did I mention I just got my job back, 8 hours a week at $7.35, the week before spring break? 

Oh wait- I lost my 40 hour a week at $12 two weeks ago!

Phrase of the semester: Mother Fucker.

Its totally uncalled for, I know. The problem is I'm broke. I have bills to pay, big electric bills and I don't even have money for groceries. If I had time I'd get a second job, but college is getting in the way.

Please save me.

I want a spring break.

A Short Thought on ExtenZe

I've been sick so the TV has been too much the ExtenZe commercials keep popping up. In the thirty second spot the word "fun" is said over and over and over. I haven't counted the "fun"s but it sticks in my head. Fun. 

ExtenZe folks: I'd have chosen a different word when talking about raging huge penises and hot steamy old people sex. Fun seems inadequate.

First Floor Living

I have lived in the same apartment for a year (like living in the same place for a year is some type of feat) in the same room, with very few things changed. In my time here in apartment D I've come to the conclusion that I will never again live on the first floor of an apartment building.

Last May while I was at home diligently working to support my college habits of eating three meals a day, buying books occasionally, renting the occasional movie someone nicely slashed the screen of my fairly empty bedroom, unlocked my window and may or may not have enjoyed a stay in my bedroom. Over my Christmas holiday this year I received a call from the lovely management that went a little like this:

"Hi Megan this is so and so, during a routine inspection of your building we noticed that your screen has been cut and your window was open, oh, about five or so inches. We went ahead and called the police and went into your room, it doesn't look like anything was taken but when you get back I need you to just take a look around and make sure everything is where you left it."

Sure enough I get back to my apartment everything seems to be where I left it, my window is still unlocked but shut, my curtain has been pulled down, the cheap rod bent but nothing too terrible. The week progressed and I'm in the throws of tonsillitis before my second class meeting. A week after that, I'm too sick to do anything productive so I go to my movie collection to see what I could put on to fall asleep to. All but four of my movies were gone. They took Jarhead, We Wear Soldiers, Lucky Number Slevin, Monkey Love (that was their mistake), Rocky Horror, The Meaning of Life and quite a few others and left me with Juno, Princess Bride and American Beauty. 

I was asking for it. My window is knee height from the ground. I was begging for my things to be taken.

If the DVD thief just happens to read this, I'd like my movies back. Just leave them in a bag outside my door and we'll just forget the whole thing. Thanks.

With Spring around the corner I'm dreading the warm weather parties that my upstairs neighbors will have. I'm not mad that have parties, they can be fun, I'm mad that at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday I can be sitting on my balcony (porch? concrete slab?) reading in the sun when a shower of jungle juice comes out of no where. I have never figured out why you would dump your drinks through the floor boards but I'm even more confused as to why you would waste booze in such a manner.  I do not like being doused with alcohol before going to class.

 I know its my fault, I live on the first floor. 

Today, after a fairly decent snow, I was sitting in my living room watching the people play in the snow with their dog when a bunch of boys (that looked much like high schoolers and an old fat man or woman) started stealing our snow. They were scooping it up in five gallon buckets and dumping it somewhere out of view. I was subject to the taking off of coats and having to look at these boys in their t-shirts and gloves.  I have to be honest here, it wasn't pretty, and their voices pierced the air over the ruckus inside. If I lived on the second floor I wouldn't have head them, I wouldn't have seen them, I would have been content to look into the woods and at the other apartments. 

But alas I live on the first floor and must live with boys with high voices and no coats stealing my snow.