Move, bitch! Get out the way.

3 Feb

I don’t like to be run down my buses or bicyclists. I just don’t. Maybe that’s just me; just an oddity I possess as an individual. I’m noticing a trend around these parts, however, involving the refusal of Cambuses to yield to pedestrians for any reason, life-threatening or non. It makes me fearful to cross streets and crosswalks, because at any moment I could be blindsided by a bright yellow bus and pummeled to my death.

Never have I been as afraid, however, as I was today while crossing the street from class. The assailant was not in the form of a bus, an SUV, or any motor vehicle of any sort, oh no. It was an enraged bicyclist. Armstrong came at me full throttle with inhuman speed and aggression. I grew wide-eyed as a flood of panic came over me and my instincts took over: I froze solid, petrified, in the middle of the road, and hoped to God he dodged me with the agility of a deer. After he zoomed past me, causing me to nearly urinate myself, I stood dumbfounded with authentic fear in the center of the crosswalk until regaining composure and continuing on my way.

I’m considering donning a neon vest and multiple reflectors to protect my own skin from this point forward.

Someone in close proximity to me in the computer lab is listening to “The Real Slim Shady” at a volume that makes every lyric perfectly audible from their tiny little iPod ear buds. I have no further commentary, except that they should perhaps put some money aside for hearing aids further down the road.

My bank account is dwindling. I need money. I realize I have already been hired at Cold Stone Creamery, but I haven’t bothered showing up for work yet. By the time that I do, they’ll tell me I’ve been fired. I will then refuse to return their uniform, however. Two t-shirts, an apron, a hat, and my own shiny personalized name tag? Forget it, boss. Mine. I’ve decided to donate plasma to the immune deficient on a weekly basis, however. I haven’t exactly gotten past the fact that I am mortified of needles yet, but with time comes healing, as they say. Actually I think the saying is “tragedy plus time equals humor.” Fuck it.

I’m actually considering pretending to be homeless. It’s like panhandling, but less work. It can’t be too hard, I mean I’m already filthy and drunk; throw in a few grammatical errors here and there in my speech, and voila. I figure I can spend a few nights a week sitting morosely on street corners with cardboard signs displaying compelling pleads, in hopes that a few sympathetic, and just as importantly, drunk, individuals will dish out their dollars to me in an act of generosity. On a good night, I predict I could fish in $10-20 dollars, depending on my act. Practice makes perfect. I’ll keep you updated.

I have sunk into a deep hygienic rut. I wash my hair twice a week now: Mondays and Thursdays. I’m sick. I am also horribly unattractive. I only wear makeup on the weekends, so at classes, I’m one of the ugly ducklings in the back row every day. I don’t even bother wearing my contacts anymore, and I tend to wear the same Soffe shorts five days a week. I wonder if people notice. I’m a grease ball, and that’s just fine. Don’t judge. I think it might affect my success at making friends in classes though. Maybe they’ll like me for my personality.

Probably not.

Classes are getting in the way of college. I have two papers due in the next ten days, and neither of them tickle my fancy by any means. I have never even BEEN to the main library before. I assumed I could make it through my entire college career without visiting what functions as the equivalent of a morgue to me, but now I’m forced to for Survey of Film.

Speaking of Survey of Film, I dislike my discussion leader. She is an Amazon of a woman with unusually broad shoulders, a nest of unruly, greasy, curly hair, broad, manly shoulders, and the teeth of a beaver. This woman is a linebacker. She always looks like she’s about to sneeze when she talks, and on top of it, she has a distracting accent. For example, she says “ah-THAR-ity figgers.” Authority figures. If you dissect the letters, you will see that the pronunciation is a totally different breed from what you’re producing, ma’am. You’re ruining the English language for me, so please stop. We all had to learn to speak as children; where were you.

Anyway, I have five thousand pages to read for various subjects, so I’ll be doing that while simultaneously guzzling caffeinated beverages and therefore peeing my pants shortly thereafter.


“You are a very tall man. I want to climb up you. I want to climb up you and mess up your hair.”


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