I wish Facebook chat had an option where you could choose to see only the people online who you care to talk to. In my case, that list would amount to no more than four people. Instead, when I explore the list of 68 people who are currently online, I am a) clueless to who 70% of those people are, and then make mental notes to delete these strangers from my friend list, b) dumbfounded by how some of the people are online 24/7, c) overwhelmed by trying to find the handful of choice people I would like to chat with, and d) astonished by how many “John”s I know.
I’m convinced that what you are named at birth has an effect on how you turn out as a person later in life. For example, almost every Stephanie I know is conservative and quiet. Every Jessica was athletic in high school, or at least thought she was. Every Rachel is a bitch. But, everyone knows a Christine or a Christina, and she is a slut. Guaranteed. If I were to name by daughter Christine or a variation of it, she would be sucking dick by age 12. There’s no way around it. My solution? I will be naming my daughter a boy name. Or forgetting about her in the bathtub during infancy.
Yesterday in lecture, our professor was going over example multiple choice questions for our upcoming exam. He would ask the question, and then read off the A, B, C, D options, followed by “How many of you guessed C? You are correct.” Then I found myself doing what every child did in third grade when they found out they answered a question correctly and wanted everyone else to know of their success: “yesssss.” Wow. Did I really just do that? I did. To myself. My popularity did not go up a point because the rest of the class knew I was a smarty pants. I’m embarrassed.
I awoke this morning around six in the godforsaken a.m. aggravated by the clamor of pounding hammers and the shrill blast of power tools outside my open window. I angrily leaned over to fumble through the blinds and slam my window shut to sleep in peace, slicing my forefinger on the plastic blinds in the process. I drifted off to sleep again until Zach called me like he often does to inform me it was 7:38 in the morning. Thank you Zach. At this time I assessed that I had 1 hour and 10 minutes to sleep until I had to get up for class. I go back to sleep.
My alarm goes off–the Dr. Evil rendition of “What If God Was One Of Us.” I tell my phone to fuck off, and skip class. My alarm goes off a second time at 11:15. I hit snooze nineteen times and finally get up at 11:50. Somehow I wake up hammered. I almost fell to the floor getting out of my bed. I then stumbled to my doorway, literally crashing into the wall. I try to remember what I drank the night before:
I continue to make my wobbly way toward the bathroom, where my appearance also indicates that I had drained a keg of Keystone ten hours previous. I am confused, but accept that the life I lead results in mornings like these.
“If you could fight anyone, who would it be?”
“Shatner. William Shatner.”