out for the count

 

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Friday, January 31, 2003

 
Colin is a graduate student that's sometimes in the lab with me. Wears his black hair long; has awkward manners, a loose Irish accent, and an eccentric aloofness that is somehow charming. He isn't much of a talker, but I find him intriguing so whenever he's around I try to make conversation. Usually, he'll only respond with one word answers. But, he has told me twice that he enjoys cheese. One time, he declared loudly "I've been to Thailand." On another occasion, he told me I had pretty feet. Mind you, these were all random, single statements with no elaboration offered.
So today, I'm sitting in the lab doing what I do and Colin opens the door and says "Procrastination is like masturbation. It feels good, but in the end, you're only fucking yourself." Then he walks away nonchalantly as if he hadn't said anything at all. Yep, our friendship is growing in leaps and bounds.

He pronounces "yourself" as "erself."

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

 
It's not you; it's me.

Here are some pictures of my learning experience last Thursday. Is it any indication that I don't remember taking pictures?

One more of me hugging some random guy. Don't ask, 'cause I don't know. But I do know that it's hella convenient to have him lined up with the graffiti on the wall behind him. Makes my job much easier.


Sunday, January 26, 2003

 
Never been so happy for a weekend to come to an end

Three light bulbs have blown out since Friday and I'm out of replacements. It's getting dark in here.
The stupid kitten (which doesn't even belong to me, mind you) shit on the floor twice. And guess who got to clean it up?
Trista and Jen left a mountainful of dishes in the sink, which I refuse to clean up and now the kitchen smells like an asscrack.
I'll never drink again. Never. Ever. I know I've said that more times than you could count on your fingers and toes. But maybe this time I mean it.
I spent all day in bed Friday curled up in the fetal postion praying for death while my dog begged me to get up and take her out to pee.
I studied for four hours last night while nursing my beer-ravaged stomach back to health. Four hours of homework on a Saturday night? That's obscene.
And I had to work all day today.

So, fuck off, Weekend. You sucked.
 
Phone call received at 3:41 yesterday morning:

Lindsey, groggy and confused: Hello?
Susi, yelling excitedly in the phone: Lindsey, I've gone crossed-eyed!
Lindsey, starting to get concerned: What? What do you mean? Are you alright? Where are you? What are you doing?
Susi, obviously drunk: I don't know. I don't know what I've been doing all night. All I know is that when I was at the DJ booth, I stuck my hand in someone's spooge. And then Reese blew snot on my face. And then I gave Reese head in front of the O'Connell Center.
Lindsey, laughing in surprise and somewhat disgusted: Um. Well. Yeah. Ewww. I don't think I needed to know that at 4 o'clock in the morning. In fact, I could've gone the rest of my life without knowing that. But thank you.
Susi, slurring her words more than ever and quite proud of herself: You'elcome!

She's such an angel when she's sleeping.

Saturday, January 25, 2003

 
Is there any way to get rid of the shakes?

Susana went out drinking with me and miraculously, she still wants to be my friend. I'm keeping her forever.

I'm on day #2 of the most excruciating hangover I've ever experienced. Is this some kind of karmic retribution or does god hate me?

Thursday, January 23, 2003

 
Ghetto superstar

Those of you who know me well and/or see me often enough know that nine times out of ten, I have my hair put up with either a pencil or a pen. This characteristic habbit usually only attracts the odd comment every once in a while, but the past two weeks I've had two or three people a day ask me about it. So here are answers to the most frequently asked questions regarding the sacred art of putting-hair-up-with-pencil. Pay attention, the following information may save your life someday.

Q. Whoa! You're so cool! How in the hibbity-dibbity do you hold your hair up like that?
A. Sorry to disappoint you folks, but the laws of phyics don't cease to exist on my head and I'm not magic. If you have hair that is at least an inch or two past your shoulders, then you too can partake in being a bum that never has a pony-tail holder. All you do is twist your hair up and stick a pen through it. Just that simple.

Q. Doesn't that hurt your head?
A. Uh, no, Einstein. If it hurt, I wouldn't do it.

Q. Will you put up my hair like that?
A. Honestly, I don't know how to. I can do it only to my own hair. But I would be willing to give you a quick demonstation to show you how I do it.

Q. Do you ever write on your head?
A. Let me see... How can I put this the nicest way possible? No. Have you been huffing glue or something?

Q. Did you mean to match the pen with your clothes?
A. No, man. Think about it for a second. Black pens are common. So are black shirts. You do the math.

Q. Why don't you buy some of those "hairsticks?"
A. Why don't I buy some pony-tair holders, for that matter? I'd just loose them anyways.

Q. Why would you sit there and watch me search for my pencil the last ten minutes when you knew you had it in your hair the whole time?
A. My bad, I forgot. I swear.

May you rest easy tonight armed with this most valuable knowlegde.

Wednesday, January 22, 2003

 
Something's gotta give

There's only one word to describe the way I've been feeling lately. It starts with a "d" and ends with an "issatisfied." Consumed by curiosity? Sure you are. Continue reading to explore the shitheap that is my life...

-My sister now lives 1,500 miles away. As if 600 wasn't bad enough.
-I haven't spent any real time with my best friend in months. Boyfriends gobble up time like King's langoliers.
-I'm poor. Raman noodles and macaroni and cheese are the staples of my diet. If I don't get the rest of my financial aid dispursement soon, I'll be wiping my ass with leaves and washing my hair with the remnants of cheap hand lotion from the hotel I stayed in last spring break.
-I have no idea what to do with my life. My major changes more than JLo's lovelife. Engineering to photography to anthropology. Maybe if I stop obsessing about it, it will just hit me...like lightening. Shyeah. The chances of that happening are probably the same as actually getting stuck by lightening.
-School sucks, except for ANT4930 (yay molecular genetics of diseases!) and the professor that runs the anthropology lab I work in. An incredibly interesting man. I could go on for hours, but let me summerize by saying that I wouldn't mind marrying him and having his children.
-Some heartless fucker stole my wallet and I now have no Social Security card, insurance card, or licsense. This may sound trivial, but you can't do anything without identification. And I can't go to the eye doctor to get a a pair of glasses.
-I haven't had sex in six months. Two words, my friends: sexual frustration. No one deserves this kind of torture.
-I hate the town I live in. You ever sit around and think to yourself "I could really use another 10,000 more pompous frat boys and 40,000 more carbon-copied college kids and 60,000 more freaky rednecks in my life." Yeah, me neither.

What have we learned today, kids? Lindsey is scatterbrained, bored, and most of all, spoiled. Regardless of many wonderful graces in her life, she's so rotten that she can only concern herself with coitus (that was just for you, Ryan) and eyeglasses.

I'm done. Thank you and have a nice day.


Tuesday, January 21, 2003

 
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The other morning, I was standing over my sink brushing my teeth when Trista swaggered up to my bathroom door like a cowboy who hadn't gotten off his horse for three weeks. When I asked her what the hell she was doing, she exclaimed "Lindsey, I shit my pants!" Groggy and more than a little confused, I continued brushing my teeth as she waddled up to her room trying her best not to let her pants rub against her underwear. Ten minutes later, as I was enjoying the sweet, sweet taste of my Cocoa Pebbles (Yes, I brush my teeth before AND after I eat breakfast. My O.C.D. is another whole story.), she sat down to explain what happened:

"Well, you see...I was in Bed, Bath, and Beyond and I didn't want to use the bathroom there. So, I decided I'd try to wait. But they have so many sheets to choose from and it took longer than I thought it would. I started running around frantically looking for the bathroom and finally ran into someone who worked there. I asked him where the bathroom was, but by that time it was too late. You see, the problem was that it was a soft stool..."

The rest of her story was drowned out by my thunderous, uncontrollable laughter. My attempts at being mature and sympathetic had crumbled at the mere mention of "soft stool." Yeah, alright...my penchant for potty humor may not be very sophisticated, but I get the last laugh while you rigid kooks are sitting there with disgusted grimaces on your faces.

All that aside, what in shit's sake was she doing looking for bed sheets at 9:30 in the morning?


Monday, January 20, 2003

 
Wanna look super-stylish and more than quadruple your chances of getting laid?

Then buy and wear a t-shirt that says: F.B.I. Female Body Inspector.

Very clever. No, really, I mean it. It's like an non-invasive branding...a nametag, if you will. Except for instead of your name, it reads "Dumbass." In wearing that shirt, you'd substantiate the fact that you're a complete fucktard and save people the trouble of talking to you. It's genius.

Saturday, January 18, 2003

 
Two turn tables and a microphone

Packed-as-fuck bar + show tunes = not too much fun. Or, so you'd think...
I went to some piano bar on Thursday night called Alligator Rocks that I swore I'd never be seen at. There I was, belting out the lyrics to the intro of Gilligan's Island, when suddenly I realized that I was belting out the lyrics to the intro of Gilligan's Island. And I was actually enjoying myself while this was taking place. Now, I know what you're thinking: the obnoxious quantity of beer that I consumed had taken over my mind and body and I was no longer capable of accurately judging the situation. Well, maybe you're right. And in that case, piano bars still suck. But drinking beer sure is fun.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003

 
If those rumors were true...

1. If you ever decide you're gonna lie and tell people that you had sex with an unsuspecting woman because she didn't reciprocate your advances, make sure you tell your friends and not hers. Then perhaps it won't get back to her. Because, let's face it...no matter how much they swore to you that they wouldn't tell her, the second you're not within a 10 foot radius her phone will start ringing.

2. If you're 22 years old and still starting rumors about having sex with unsuspecting women because they don't reciprocate your advances, either grow up or drop off the face of the planet. Whichever's easier for you.

Monday, January 13, 2003

 
My god.

Is this some kind of a joke?

Sunday, January 12, 2003

 
One last order of business before I go:

If your name just happens to be Ryan and you just happen to be reading this...
Smile. Right now. No, really. Now.
 
Can I borrow a towel for a minute; I just hit a water buffalo with my car.

Upon returning from Jacksonville tonight, I realized that it's strangely comforting to hear Blondie's nails clicking on the hardwood floors in my apartment. Glad to see her fat, furry ass. Except that she's a big fan of panting in my face. Egh. If I didn't know better, I'd think she'd been eating shit sandwiches.


Wednesday, January 08, 2003

 
This is the part where you feel sorry for me.

I lost my wallet today. Well, I didn't exactly lose it...I left it in the McCarty auditorium after class and someone took it. But since I haven't the foggyest idea what has become of it, I suppose that constitutes loss. So yes, I lost my life today. Liscense, credit cards, check card, military ID, insurance card, social security card, the hundreds of recepts that I shove in the billfold when I buy shit, my Blockbuster card (which we all know is of the upmost importance), and all the other various needful things that I used to keep nestled in the card slots. Curse!

Letter to my missing wallet:
Dear Ms. Green-Target-brand-lovely,
I'm sorry that I was absent-minded enough to leave you all by yourself. I know you're cold. I know you're lonely. I know you've been proded and otherwise molested by some stranger's dirty fingers. But I also know you still love me. I miss you terribly. Please come home soon.
Hugs and kisses,
Lindsey

Wow. I'm a complete fucking weirdo.

Tuesday, January 07, 2003

 
Don't wait up, I'll see you in hell

Anyone who was still asleep when I woke up at 7:30 this morning to eat stale Pop-tarts and then ride public transportation to the place that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns can lick my left asscheek. You know who you are.

On a completely unrelated sidenote, my organic chem professor looks suspiciously similar to Mr. Rogers. I mean, they could be twins. Someone should feed his fish, then make sure he has the proper change of sweaters and shoes in his closet.

Sunday, January 05, 2003

 
Are you pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?

Due to several recent, unsolicited comments regarding my "potty mouth," I'd like to take this oppurtunity to introduce you to three of my good friends. Their names are Ass, Shit, and Fuck. Since these sweethearts are regulars at my house, it's only proper that all of you get acquainted and accustomed to one another. Without futher ado, here is what you should know about about my provoking little buddies:

Ass was born in the mid 1800's to a single mother named Arse. Ass is very helpful in decribing your annoying neighbors or your most notorious of body parts. But be careful how you treat this "obscenity," Ass is always waiting just behind you.
Shit was born in England, some time before Ass. Shit is amazingly handy around the house. This guy can mean anything. Anything, no joke. Your drink? Shit. Your food? Shit. Your friends? Shit. All your belongings? Yep, you guessed it. Shit.
Fuck is the reigning heavy-weight of the three. The baddest of the "bad words." Fuck can really pack a punch, so you can use it for exageration to get your point across. Or to insult your best friend's boyfriend. Or just piss off you mother (pastor, teacher, etc.), which is always a shit-load-ton of fun.

Learn, 'em, use 'em, love 'em. The whole world will be a better place.

Saturday, January 04, 2003

 
I tell you I'm livin' large and all you see is the struggle...

So much shit happened during New Year's that I don't even know where to begin. But instead of writing a book, I'm gonna cop out by saying only that some of my holiday vacation was amazing and some of it sucked ass. I guess that would make it about average.

Here is what I learned over the holidays:
Lesbians like redheads. So do short men named Matt that are in the army. Ryan C. is my hero. Most people suck. New Years isn't as fun when you don't get trashed. Conversation with my roommate keeps me sane. I spend too much money. My dog can be very annoying. It's much harder than you think to quit smoking. All my close friends are too spread out. I'm much younger than I feel. Plants die when you go out of town and forget to water them.
I think that's about it.

Oh yeah...it cheers you up (when you come home from vacation feeling like shit) to find that incredibly sweet people have sent you gifts ALL the way from NYC.