Complaint by Numbers

Campus Faux Pas

October 31, 2007
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While this is completely trivial, shallow and mildly bitchy, I needed to share the horror I witnessed this morning. Aside from the assholes wearing their Halloween costumes to class (you’re a pimp? OMG, that is so clever!), I witnessed a vision so blinding that it will forever be burned on my retinas, with a slightly neon green outline. Some heinous bitch decided that, to punish us all for being drab with our clothing, she would wear an entire hot pink outfit. Hot pink. All of it. Head to toes. There was a floaty shirt (with sparkles), a jacket (with fake fur trim- how… classy), way too tight (way) hot pink jeans and finally, hot pink ballet flats. The whole abominable affair was finished with a slightly hilarious, hot pink Betsey Johnson bad (not hand bag, just a shopping bag) that left me dumbfounded, unable to vocalize thoughts and slightly confused.

My only question is, why is this allowed? You would think that she would realize how fucking bad that looks. I mean, I’m no expert, but I’ve watched enough Stacey and Clinton to know what not to wear.


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Let me wax nostalgic…

October 30, 2007
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Before you criticize me, let me tell you I know it’s not exactly kosher to post twice in a row, but I feel this topic deserves it’s very own link in the “Recent Posts” column. I also realize it’s in bad form to talk about the past in a blog, but fuck convention, I’m going for it.

I promise this won’t be too long. Unfortunately, I also promise that this will be exactly like when that annoying girl in your dorm/office comes to you and prostrates herself at your feet to whine for an hour and a half about every problem any of her friends is having.

Proper warning given, I’ll continue…

My best friend, my Lover, the Love of My Life is having boyfriend troubles again (or at least she was when I spoke to her Sunday (Saturday?) night and so I’m basing this on that information). It seems that her bee-eff has decided to play the part of the woman again and whine about how she doesn’t spend enough time with him, give an I-Think-We-Should-Maybe-Break-Up type ultimatum and then immediately regret his decision and barrage Lover with around 3 phone calls, some effeminate whining, and no less than fourteen (14!) IMs.

Now, this post may seem a bit biased, so before I dig myself any further into this hole, let me say that I like this guy. He’s nice, polite, and apparently a pretty good boyfriend. This being said, I want to take a moment to commemorate m favorite Lover boyfriend of all, my fake husband, and close friend since freshman year of high school, K.

K is an awesome guy. He’s everything that any hipster worth their salt would want to date: artistic, musically gifted, a writer, the poster boy for the tight sweater/shaggy hair movement, and most importantly, just a little bit damaged. He also has an iPhone and is in Prague for a semester. How cool is that?

Their relationship, which started adorably, but ended bitterly, lasted less than a year, and despite awkward phone calls (being close to both meant being the captive audience for both sides of every fight), I really thought they would be together for a long time (I’d say forever, but you know…).

I can understand their breaking up (distance makes things hard), but talking to them both, I can’t help but harbor these delusions that Mommy and Daddy will get back together. They both always come to the same conclusion: they can’t help but keep coming back to each other (drunk phone calls, random visits, etc).

I can’t say they’ll get back together (though she is going to visit him in Prague). But they will forever remain in my mind a couple. My J.D. and Elliot, my Jim and Pam (pre-season 4, you know, with the flirting and they will-they-won’t-they), my Frye and Leela.


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Brief Update

October 30, 2007
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I’ll admit, my life is anything but exciting, but for the last two weeks, I’ve been able to completely write that off as an unfortunate, but inevitable by-product of a World Series-driven culture. That is to say, I originally hail from Boston (ish) and thus, have been glued to my television since the post season started, waiting for Manny Ramirez to learn to speak English. This pipe dream failing to manifest, I settled for a World Series title.

Despite baseball season having ended, there is still no hope of my ever leaving the comfort and safety of my minuscule social circle. It’s not that I have trouble making friends, it’s more that I lack any desire to see these people. Also, from what I’ve been told, being bitchy and promiscuous do not help in the process of maintaining friendships. One would think I’d have learned this in high school, but you know- old dog, new tricks (heh). It won’t happen.

Mind you, I’ve managed to cut the promiscuity (thanks to the miracle of monogamy), but Bitchy is a trait that simply cannot leave my behavioral vocabulary. It’s not my fault that I simply do not wish to be in the same room with certain people. It’s not my fault that some of these people happen to be in my former circle of friends. I just can’t help it. I also can’t help that two of my closest friends are abroad for this entire semester (though, J is gone for the year). Were it not for this, there would currently be far more pictures on facebook featuring my tits, “drunk face,” or some combination of the two.

Since this is turning into more of a rant than anything else, I’ll go into the mechanics of my drinking style and then explain why I simply can’t do it anymore. When I drink, I inevitably make out with, or fuck, the closest thing with a penis. This happens to be my boyfriend now, but clearly poses a problem were I to go out drinking with the girls. There are too many random guys, and too few people to babysit me. Also, I’m poor (I need a job).

Ironically, my being poor (and thus unable to drink) is a direct result of my drinking. After I quit my job at daycare a month and a half early this summer (I just couldn’t take it), I no longer felt any sort of “responsibility.” This lead to about a month of partying (with an honest-to-god week filled with nothing but drinking, and other partying-related behaviors). The constant staying up, and consuming nothing but massive amounts of food led to my dropping 9 pounds in five days. It set me back a fucking fortune, but by gum, it was worth it.

I realize that this post has all the coherence of an episode of Tyra, but it’s early, so bear with me.


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Fuck you, Cleveland

October 16, 2007
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Fuck you.


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Hey, Francona…

October 16, 2007
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Just out of curiosity, are you planning on putting Ellsbury in? I don’t know about you, but I kind of enjoy when the Sox win.


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Peer Pressure

October 15, 2007
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After a two-year-long hiatus from Livejournal, Blogspot or any other such self-indulgent form of internet soap-boxery, I’ve decided to start blogging again. I’m afraid that if this stress stays inside, the resulting ulcers will eventually kill me, and I owe too many people too much money to just die (on the other hand…).

Instead of reviving a tired blog from my whiny adolescence, I feel a fresh page will suffice.


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