Remember the RA job I had applied for? Well, I didn't get it. I'm pretty upset right now, and tonight, I would like to sit back with a glass of wine and a good movie. Maybe I will be in a more upbeat mood tomorrow. Though I warn you: I strongly doubt it.
I'm going out to a bar for the first time in weeks! This is going to be great!
PS I've decided that my next boyfriend should be a man in his late 20s, early 30s. I'm thinking Rupert Everett-esque. Awjea.
Someone asked me today if I go tanning a lot.
I said no.
Living such a lie, I am not sure how I sleep at night.
'Retired pediatrician Alva J. Hartwright, 63, pleaded guilty in February to sexually assaulting two boys, age 11 and 14 at the time, by giving them enemas (part of a 30-year pattern, said prosecutors, of administering enemas to as many as 40 boys). When police arrested Hartwright at his home in June in Morrisville, Pa., they found "feces everywhere," with "so much feces in one room (that) it was impassable," said an officer. Also found were "thousands" of photographic images of boys receiving enemas, all of which, insisted Hartwright, were "medically necessary" and not sexually gratifying to him.'
Operating on only one hour of sleep, I was completely unprepared to deal with the unholy idiocy that pervaded my politics class this morning. For over two hours, I was subjected to inane quarrels regarding gang violence in Brazil, tedious summaries of foreign news clippings recited indifferently by the students that -- to their credit -- bothered to do the assignment in the first place, and a ceaseless barage of trivial squabbles that I would otherwise expect only from a pack of mentally disabled toddlers.
And it does not stop there.
One girl, who I had the grave misfortune of sitting near, would burst out into a fit of giggles every time the professor referred to the peculiar and eccentric characteristics of Italian democracy. Apparently, the Italians' infatuation with political scandal was the most hilarious thing this girl had heard in weeks.
Futhermore, one guy was wearing sandals. It's February. By a pair of fucking shoes.
Wow. I'm in a really good mood today. Perhaps I should spread sunshine and joy to the moronic freshmen who have taken to congregating outside my door. Please die.
The Italian government -- democratic by name, anarchical by reputation -- takes pride in the 90 percent turnout it has for political elections. Since every Italian citizen is automatically registered to vote, nine out of every ten Italians consistently show up at the ballots. In the United States, only half that number participate in elections.
There's a twist, however. Despite the 90 percent participation rate, only 60 percent of the Italian ballots actually count. Why? Because the other 30 percent of voters don't fill out the ballot -- they just scribble down obscenities directed at the government, i.e. 'Italy sucks!' and 'The government stinks!'
These vandalized ballots cannot be counted and are, of course, thrown out.
I just thought that was rather interesting/funny. Crazy Italians. OK, I haven't slept in 24 hours. Good night, moon.
I am writing another feature story for the campus paper -- this time about getting in shape for Spring Break. I would just like to note the poignant irony of my walking into the fitness center this morning with my dirty hair completely dischelveled, two-days worth of stubble on my face, an old velvet-covered diary from middle school found under my bed that would serve as a make-shift notepad, wearing the same clothes from yesterday and no deodorant to speak of -- and completely unprepared to interview the university's Health and Fitness Supervisor.
Once I meet deadline, perhaps I will have more time to go to this nebulous locale known only as The Gym.
You know, I always noticed an emo side to the despotic Middle Eastern martinet, King Hussein. And now he has his very own LiveJournal! How 'bazaar' indeed.
In general, I do not feel that sleeping (and for once, I am being literal here) with friends is a terrible thing. When you are lonely or despondent or sad or just plain drunk, having someone -- anyone! -- to cuddle with sure beats the unappealing prospect of passing out alone. Sure, the comfort that such cuddling affords is temporary at best, but who cares? No one thinks for the future these days. It's all about instant pleasure, instant results, here and now and fast.
And that is what happened last night. Inevitably, a screening of my 'Office Space' DVD coupled with a soon-to-be-emptied jug of sangria lead to feelings of misery and despair among the group. We are attractive! We are smart! We always have a supply of alcohol and cult-film DVDs! Then why the hell are we SINGLE?!
Far too drunk to wax philosophical regarding the matter, I opted instead to disrobe in front of my friends and climb into bed. It was then that he climbed into bed with me. He is cute. I'm pretty sure he has a crush on me. And we are just friends. But at the moment, all I needed was someone to put my arm around, and it was perfect.
I don't think there is anything necessarily wrong about that. Is there?
There is a pimple underneath my right sideburn. Should I pop it even though no one can see it?
The simple act of taking a shit has become entirely too complicated and stressful. Consider the fact that I live in a college dormitory and you will see why this is the case.
For instance, I spent nearly 30 minutes this morning squatting in the stall waiting for some guy to finish washing his face, brushing his teeth, cleaning his contacts and doing whatever people that spend far too much time in front of a mirror do. After about 20 minutes, I suspected that he was merely testing to see how long I would wait idly in the stall. Well, let me tell you -- there's no way in hell I was going to step out from behind the stall door. The only thing more shameful than taking a shit is actively being ashamed of it.
After he finally left, I counted to 10, just in case he was going to fake me out by suddenly jumping back into the bathroom. I'm just too clever for you, mister. Aw yea.
Halfway through 'Moulin Rouge' and a glass of red wine, my crush calls and asks what I am up to. I tell him that I am watching a movie in my friend's room and that he should stop by. He says he will, at which point I close my cell phone and start giggling like a school girl. I know -- I am such a loser.
Of course, we reach the 'Hindi Sad Diamonds' scene and my crush still hasn't arrived. Well, fuck. My night is ruined. I act like a huge bitch for the rest of the evening and pass out on my bed at 3:30 a.m. after three episodes of 'Sex and the City Season Two' and a swig of Nyquil.
Oh yea, my crush has a boyfriend, so me thinks it is just a touch retarded for me to be acting like such a baby. Maybe one day I will grow up and not feel the need to post angry away messages that express my hatred of the entire homosexual population.
Being single is only fun for people that embrace drunken hookups and plurarized usage of parts below the waist. I wish I was one of those people.