Stuck

Sometimes friends start to take on each others idiosyncrasies and habits. It’s funny when I notice that, after I’ve lost or simply moved away from a particular idiosyncrasy, a friend may still keep using that same one for ages after. It’s even odder to notice that the said mannerism often begins to irritate me.

I am always so surprised by change. It sneaks up on me.

Have you known anything that’s never changed?

Childhood Aspirations

When I was very small, I used to read a series of astronomy books in my elementary school library. As far as I can recall, they were pretty classy…no stupid cartoons and straightforward information, in a format that young kids could still understand. I remember reading one that had mention of a black hole…there was a diagram of what it would theoretically be like to have your body go into a black hole…it showed a man’s form in green ink being stretched out to infinity (and even with the impossible task of trying to draw infinity on a sheet of paper eight inches wide, the book still did a pretty damn good job of getting the idea across). Ever since then I’ve had the weird and freakish desire to be sucked into a black hole, just ’cause it looked cool.

Hey, with the Large Hadron Collider being switched on, I may just very well get my wish!

(Disclaimer: I’m on the “I trust the scientists” side of things, just so you know. Though really, I don’t care if I die from black-hole-sucking-up-ness. I doubt I’d notice it happening…)

Piercings

One thing I don’t even notice anymore about working at a coffee shop are the piercings. All of the employees except myself and one other girl have at least one facial piercing–I’m not entirely sure how that worked out…regardless, I barely notice it. However, the occasional customer will take illogical offense. Earlier today I was working register when this older man came up to the counter and ordered. He mentioned offhand that “it’s refreshing to see the lack of metal on your face.” I immediately took offense (on behalf of the other girls) and sharply responded with the ever-useful “to each their own” (although while I’m saying that, I may remind you that I don’t always adhere to that myself. Neither do you…and you…and even you).

Yeah, excessive facial piercings make people look weird. Methinks that’s the point. If I had a nose ring, I’d want people to see it–that’s the point of getting piercings, at least in this day, age, and location. Why show hatred or dislike towards someone for having a piercing? Hell…I’ve been known to say “haHA! That’s RIDICULOUS!” when I hear about people getting their Achilles tendons pierced (may I say ouch?) but I never think that they’re any less a person for it.

The man I mentioned earlier was civil enough to at least not show his dislike to the pierced employees’ faces, but there have been other customers (mostly older women) who have showed their distaste clearly. One woman hid her purse as our lovely Rose (pierced from head to toe!) walked by her table. Talk about rude.

Is it fair to judge someone based on their piercings? I’ll agree with one thing; those who are pierced/tattooed (more than a normal amount) do tend–from my observations–to be more out there, a little more “wild” but not necessarily a worse person. Their morals are no more degenerated than yours or mine. While there’s a correlation, there’s no indicator past that. Different does not mean worse.

I guess the whole situation today really pissed me off. Which is why I’m writing. So what’s your views on teh subject? Or bodily modifications (barring plastic surgery) in general?

Protest is Dead

I was sitting in my room staring at the wall today (taking after my dad in that respect, it seems–although he doesn’t stare at my wall, but other walls), mainly focusing on a crappy collage I made last summer. I thought it was cool at the time, ’cause I had found politically charged drawings/sayings from magazines–depictions of a robot in an American flag outfit with his head falling off, quotes like “awake is the new sleep” and “the dark side” / “playing with our heads” (conjoined to look like one line, despite their initial separation in two different magazines).

I began to wonder–what’s the point of all, this alternative everything? So many of us feel the need to constantly glorify our apparent rebellion against whatever we may think is wrong with our little world, and we do this by going against the mainstream, and liking it.

Let’s take ourselves seriously here. It’s good to be different–but everyone who’s different ends up being the same as all the other different people. I’m not condoning the idea that we should all stay within boundaries, follow the rules, all that, I’m saying that we should realize what we’re really doing. Are we really breaking free by going off the beaten track, forgetting cliches (this sentence is now officially ironic), or are we only again doing what we feel we should be doing…we *should* follow the rules but at the same time we should break free of the pack.

My proposal is we stop declaring what we’re doing and being loud about it, and we just go and do it. Maybe people will leave each other alone a little more. But wait–what am I arguing against? Against being different for the sake of being different? Perhaps–but I love those catchphrases, I love those actions that announce “I’m different and I like it–look at me. Pay attention to me.” I wrote all this but I won’t change.

We change and we progress and we become worse and we live and we just GO AND WE GO AND WE stop.

And we Are. And we will Forever Be.

Protest is dead.

.unobservant.

I was driving early one morning–daylight hadn’t even broken–when I came upon a straightaway, two yellow lights reflecting back at me, right in my path. Looked like eyes, man height, I was sure to be done for. Turned out to be a deer, six-point, antlers thrust to the predawn sky, staring at me. No, not me, my headlights, as puzzling to him as his gleaming eyes were to me.

Weeks before, I was a passenger, gazing dreamily out the window at an unfamiliar town. A couple embracing at a gas station ahead, one a short Mexican lady and the other a tall skinny white man with a hat, both seen better days, both slightly past middle age. So much passion contained in that hug, silent passion as they quietly understood each other for a few seconds. I came closer–the two were not embracing. Standing ten feet apart–they did not know each other. From my angle, I had interpreted their lives without scrutinizing them.

Today I went outside and I had a long conversation with my cat. He told me he loves me, but it’s nothing personal.

I am beautiful.

Invisible Substance Addiction

I’m always on something–no–I always feel like I’m on something, my life is being altered by a narcotic, depressant, or some other state-altering substance. Even when I’m not actually on an actual substance of some form (which, I assure you, I’m not the majority of the time), my life has drifted into an other-verse. I can get high or change my perspective off of anything.

My life this summer, and especially the last month or so, has been one long high. The only time I feel “normal” so to speak is at work, and the reality shocks me back from my dream world (a dream world that isn’t actually a dream, only plays out as one).

I don’t mind this at all–in fact, I rather like it. I’m very happy right now (aside from work but honestly, how many people my age like their job? Haha.) and this isn’t an escapism high, it’s a ready-to-live high. I’m not doing that thing (as much) where all I live for is the Next Big Event. I’m content with the present and the past and what may come in the future.

When I have memories of this summer they play back in my head just like memories of artificially altered experiences. The memories that play back sharper are those of intense feelings (love, pain, the DEEP ones). I like this. This is relaxing. This, I can take and I can enjoy and I can learn something from, get something from. I’m not being nonproductive, I’m using my everlasting high not only to enjoy myself but to learn things too–not bookish things perhaps (it is summer, after all), but life lessons. The easy ones, maybe, but easy does not always rule out meaningful and useful.

This is wonderful. The “real” thing has introduced me to the “fictional” thing and it’s not bad in the least. How do you take something considered negative and turn it into something positive? I’m not sure–but apparently I’ve done it. Combined with outside feelings and emotion–I’d like to think that it’s particularly the growth of new potential love (can you know love before it occurs? It seems so…) that’s done it–I have the perfect formula. In time I will change it–I will not want to be in this state in the future, but for now, it is ideal and NOT for escapism as I said before–to augment every moment and ache, each second a blooming emotion. Good or bad, it all transforms into perfect in the end, perfect for now, and as I look back, perfect still again in the times that come.

Assumed Stupidity

This post is about being treated inferior by people who are, in all actuality, probably inferior to me, at least when it comes to their attitude.

On a day-to-day basis I am treated like an underling, an idiot teenager, an incompetent fool, by customers who come to my workplace, a coffee shop/lunch and breakfast place. 98% of the time I give them no reason to treat me so badly, but I almost always come home feeling quite deflated, thanks to their snide and often cruel words.

Yesterday I was on register when two ladies ordering together bought a few coffee drinks. Keep in mind that we have two different types of mugs–a taller squarer one (that only comes in one size, 12 ounces) we use primarily for brewed drip coffee, and a shorter rounder one we use for all other hot drinks (these come in 12, 16, 20 ounces). One of the ladies ordered a regular brewed coffee and the other, her friend, ordered a different coffee drink, what we call a Shot in the Dark. She ordered a small size (12 ounces, the same size as the mug). When I brought out their drinks, the Shot in the Dark woman asked me “what is this? I ordered the smallest size! I want her [points at other woman] size!” I explained to her that they both contained the same fluid ounce amount and that she was mistaken and had indeed gotten the smallest size. Since the mug was taller and thinner, it gave the appearance of being smaller when in fact it was merely an optical illusion. The woman argued with me awhile longer until finally she said “Fine. I guess if you THINK so.” At that point I would have rather liked to have punched her full on (or maybe threw her damn twelve ounces of coffee into her face) but I figured that it would be smartest to not get sued, and just walked away.

I think perhaps why people treat me so bad is because they don’t realize that I know more about how the business runs than they think. It seems most places you go, employees are trained to make one motion and one motion only–at my workplace, we are trained to do everything. Food, drinks, register, serving, dishes, stocking, food prep, you name it. The woman who complained figured I probably didn’t know anything about the coffee cup sizes because for the moment, to her, I was merely the lowly server, and that was all I did. Little did she know that I’m actually in a managerial position.

This gets to me more than other people. That was only one example, but things of that magnitude happen to me almost every day. I don’t have the mental and emotional stamina of many other people and one unfounded hurtful remark can cripple me for three days–maybe longer. I know that I’m not a stupid girl, so having people jump to conclusions about me makes me feel horrible. It’s a trial–and I don’t think I can win.

When will I get to the point where I’m treated with respect in most situations? I don’t think I ever will while I’m still working where I’m at. Even my mom gets treated like shit a lot by high-and-mighty assholes, and she’s the owner! Age has nothing to do with it, then. So I can’t simply grow up and expect people to automatically treat me better. I need to get OUT OF THIS SITUATION!

I can’t. Not for the time being. But…it just hurts me. I’m emotionally broken down every week, multiple times. Is it making me stronger? I doubt so. How can hurtful words EVER make you stronger if you don’t have the the amount of inner strength needed to begin with?

My Apologies…

I meant to keep this blog frequently updated–in fact, it was to be a pet project of mine! Unfortunately, as you can see, I haven’t updated it in ages.

I believe the reason is that I write notes on Facebook instead–I find more fun in that, because I have a steady stream of people whom I know reading my stuff. If I post on WordPress (not knowing anyone here), I don’t get feedback or replies, and where’s the fun in that?

So I found the solution! When I post on Facebook, I will simultaneously post the same thing on WordPress! I feel I’ll be able to update more than once every three months that way.

Wish me luck!

Pretty soon I won’t have any more coffee shops to boycott.

At my college, there are two on-campus coffee shops, run through the school. They are terrible, in many many ways. I am not sure if it’s the coffee itself, the possible poor management, the fact that all the employees are college students, the fact that said employees are not properly trained, or what, but almost every single time that I buy a drink at one of the coffeehouses, they screw something up. I’m not talking just once or twice, I’m talking ALMOST EVERY SINGLE TIME. That’s a lot. Here’s just a few examples of what they’ve screwed up.

What I wanted: Coconut steamer.
What they gave me: Lukewarm coconut steamer.

What I wanted: Extra hot coconut steamer.
What they gave me: Lukewarm coconut steamer.

What I wanted: Iced latte.
What they gave me: Iced latte with a strong burnt taste. Ew.

What I wanted: Coconut flavored hot chocolate.
What they gave me: Lukewarm hot chocolate minus the coconut.

What I wanted: Coconut steamer with white chocolate powder steamed in.
What they gave me: Coconut steamer with white chocolate powder *mixed* in. What the hell? You don’t mix powder in…that’s why you have a steamer. Duh.

What I wanted: Strawberry Italian soda with cream in it.
What they did: Scooped the ice in, poured the soda water in, put the syrup in, put the cream in, then realized that there wasn’t enough ice, so put more ice in at the top, which made it fizzle up and totally curdled the cream. They gave it to me practically bubbling over the side and disregarded me while I furiously cleaned everything up with about twenty-five napkins.

And last but not least, the most ridiculous one yet (this happened today and totally set me over the edge)..

What I wanted: Coconut steamer.
What they gave me: Mexi hot chocolate. ROFL. The guy even said “coconut steamer” when he handed it to me, but I was just not…How do you…how do you DO that?

And this doesn’t even include all the things they’ve done, not to mention undercharged me, overcharged me, asked me how to make some of the incredibly simple things I order…gah. I swear. I’m just going to go out and buy my own freaking commercial espresso machine and do everything myself.

Meet Me at the S.U.

As I write this, I’m sitting smack in the middle of the Student Union, that hip urban building which houses any sort of activity one can dream of. I’ve eaten here, danced here, attended meetings and debates, bought shitty hemp jewelry from other students, and viewed art shows. The Student Union is the Place To Be. I’m in between classes at the moment but I can’t help feeling struck by how utterly different the atmosphere is in here compared to the rest of campus.

In the dorm complexes, there’s a certain aura of sleaziness, as in “this is where we live and also where we have a lot of sex. This is where we fart without embarrassment.” It’s where we eat the crappy cafeteria crap of Doom and where we dodge gangs of valley girls model-walking it down the hall, all armed with toothbrushes and tweezers.

The various buildings where classes take place feel . . . not glamorous–or perhaps I have not yet gotten to the point where I deserve glamor yet, being merely a freshman–but just like classrooms. Normality. Approaching high school classroom normality. My University is fairly small, and 88% of the time class sizes do not exceed thirty or forty students. There are only a few actual lecture halls, and these do not exceed 100 seats. Nevertheless, the classroom buildings still feel studious and do not stray much from that feeling.

The art buildings and art museum are quiet, formal and creative. The administrative buildings hardly pass your local DMV offices in friendliness, and the general campus area is classically beautiful, with paved walks stretching between huge expanses of lawn, brightly colored trees everywhere.

And yet, none of this even resembles the Student Union atmosphere. Right here is where everyone goes, commuters and residents alike, grade school age visitors, PH.D.-toting professors. There is always a sense of hustle and bustle, of never ending action, of gentle riots, always defying the scholarly air of the rest of campus. The Student Union. Ahhh.

4-Wheeling it to Class

I drove from my parent’s house to my dorm complex today (which takes about an hour), in seven inches of snow. The roads were fairly clear until I reached the campus, which, as I mentioned in an earlier topic, is uphill both directions, I had to drive up an insanely steep road to reach my dorm. A road that for some odd reason, despite the undeniable traffic, had been ignored by the snowplow. I was a mere quarter mile from my room. I could see the sun glistening on my window. I had no choice, I had to do it. I had to drive up the vertical road.

It’s times like these that I’m really glad I own a Jeep.

After a moment’s brief hesitation, I slammed into four-wheel drive and took that hill as though I were playing chicken with a snail. I must have looked kind of ridiculous, obviously four-wheeling in the middle of town in a mud-encrusted Jeep, my hair in a girly ponytail, my teeth gritted. I did make it up to the parking lot in front of my complex, but not before parking on top of a foot of snow. That’s going to be odd when the snow melts. Maybe my car will tip over, if I’m lucky (y’know…photo op!).

Lucky Correlation

It’s been less than a week and already I’ve neglected this blog.

ANYWHO on to the actual topic. The topic of Utmost Importance.

I feel lucky this term. In some odd way, by some insane yet wonderful coincidence, all my classes have correlated in some for or another. The topics have, that is. My Astronomy class dabbles in some brief history on famous astronomers (such as Sir Issac Newton) who were also philosophers. That goes hand in hand with my Philosophy class, where I end up gaining a deeper understanding of these philosophers, since I see dual points of views on their lives. And again, some of these philosophers and astronomers are French, a pretty important point when you consider that I’m taking beginning French (despite having taken four years of French in highschool, I’m apparently not capable enough to deal with 200-level college French). When I come across French phrases or words that relate to my Philosophy and Astronomy classes, I’m more capable of understanding than I would be otherwise. This, in turn, increases my overall understanding of a term or concept.

Last but not least, my USem class (my school’s equivalent of a freshman core class, but oh so much more than that!) has introduced ethics and various philosophical topics, such as the relation and existence of evil and good, a very close tie-in to some of the topics covered in my–you guessed it–Philosophy class (strange, how everything comes back to philosophy. Then again, everything in this Universe comes back to philosophy. Is that a generalization? I don’t know).

Because of this strange coincidence, I feel as though I’m being immersed in one, very intense, beautiful class that runs sixteen hours a week. It’s amazing and fascinating, for every day uncovers some new and crucial connection. This is why I came to college.

This is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life.

The Myth That is the Freshman Fifteen

I’m certain you’ve all heard of the Freshman Fifteen. Maybe you’ve been a victim of it yourself. However, being quite a skinny girl, I was not unduly worried about fifteen pounds. In fact, it would probably help me out in some ways, maybe make my boobs bigger. To be honest, I was actually looking forward to the Freshman Fifteen, and my shallowness was loving the idea. Bra-shopping, here we come!

But let me make something clear to you. My college is fairly small. You can walk from one end of it to the other in about ten minutes, although probably faster if the sharp, nasty, freezing wind is blowing and your fingers are starting to break off from the cold, one by one. That’s enough motivation to move at a jogging pace. Not so bad, right? Most of my classes were only about six minutes away anyhow. HOWEVER! And here’s the catch…

Isn’t there always a catch?

…The entire campus goes uphill. Both directions. It’s a focking paradox. My school should be on the Travel Channel for “Most Weird-ass Geographical Places.” I don’t know how it happened, but everything is literally uphill, no matter which way you are traveling. Needless to say, one burns a lot of calories when one has to travel uphill every waking moment of one’s life. That Freshman Fifteen was not going to visit me anytime soon.

But that’s not all! Oh no! There’s more! My dorm room is on the fourth floor, and I probably climb all forty-four of those stairs ten times a day. Luckily for me, the stairs do not go upwards both directions, but I figure that’s probably a fluke. So this is the way I see things:

Calories burned walking to and from class + calories burned climbing stairs + calories burned barfing up terrible cafeteria food > (is greater than) the amount of calories gained from attempting to overeat.

As a result, I have actually lost weight since coming to college. So seriously, I recommend it here. Much more effective than any diet you’ll ever go on in your life. On the other hand, if you’re wasting away into a skeleton, as I am, avoid this place at all costs.

Time for South Park. Gotta go.

A BIENTOT, FAITHFUL NON-READERS!

The First Step.

I feel a little idiotic letting my first post in this new blog be about a college party. Especially since I’m not much of a party-goer. However, it is the most recent event in my life, and therefore the freshest in my mind and easiest to relate. So here goes.

I love how my days can completely turn to very unexpected circumstances. At six o’clock this evening, I was planning simply to attend the Honors Club meeting, due mostly to the free pizza (AND COOKIES! YOMYOM) and then trudge back to my dorm for another wonderful night in. South Park at 9:30 and I’d be happy as a clam. Or a dog. Or some such happy creature. So I sat around for two hours listening in on the fascinating discussion about terrorism the club was having and left once we essentially got kicked out.

I dragged myself to the underground floor of the Student Union, where supposedly some FOCKING amazing BAND OF AWESOMENESS was playing that night. Yep. Focking amazing die-hard liberal baby killers singing about how Jesus eats poo and how many strings they can break on their cheap acoustic gee-tars in five minutes, ’cause they’re so hXc. That’s “hard ex core,” you all. One of the band members was wearing punked-out Carharts. I loved them. So I followed them (upon invitation from some random guy I’d been chilling with for an hour or so–let’s call him Sam) across and down the street in the bitter cold to a house party. My first one, to be exact. I don’t get out much.

The inside of the house was actually pretty well-kept, which was kind of surprising, considering students are assholes and can’t clean up properly. The entire front room was covered in this odd green net-type material which made me feel like I was sitting in the least-fishy fisherman’s hut in the world. There were sofas everywhere, including a futon in the kitchen. Which actually came in handy later on that night. I settled in on one of the many couches with Sam, grabbed a beer, and waited for the party to start. Which it did, naturally, once the ballroom music came on.

Yeah, ballroom music. I think that’s the factor which convinced me to stay. Needless to say, I was giddy and giggly, but trying to act cool in my flowery shirt and my fakey emo-pants, complete with flats and an army-style sweater of all things, among the alternative kids with their patches and their Ramones t-shirts and their dreadlocks and their vegan ism. I thought I was fitting in pretty damn well, considering the all too laughable circumstances. Me? Fit in with them? I’m a loner who lives in a single dorm in the 24 hour quiet hall. But hell, I managed to get them to politely ignore me which I figured was an accomplishment in itself.

The beer disappeared quickly, sometime between when I started watching Tenacious D: Pick of Destiny with Sam on the upstairs futon and when I started macking with Sam on that same futon. So they pulled out the weed. Like, all of the weed. In the city. Sam and I were quickly joined by six or seven drunkards with bongs, and I snapped to attention, to the dismay of Sam, who was still obviously bewildered by the fact that I’d actually bothered to mack with him in the first place. So the bong got passed, finally to me, me, a girl who has limited herself to alcohol and hookah only. But drugs have always been someone of a curiosity to me, so I gladly accepted, even risking the possibility of jeers being thrown my way after asking someone how the focking bong worked.

To my great surprise, the punks were drunk and stoned enough to not care whether I was a virgin druggie, and a girl politely offered to take an inhale herself and exhale it into my mouth, which, amusingly enough, ended up in a lovely little kiss of awesome lesbian-ness. Too bad I’m not a lesbian, right?

So after another half hour of failing to get high (I think I was doing something wrong–should I have tongued that girl?) and watching Taco Bell (no meat) get tossed into eagerly awaiting, still smoking mouths, I decided to stumble back home, dragging Sam along with me, where I did not sleep until I had to arise for the new day. I think Sam might have been dry humping me the whole night, thus explaining why I got no sleep, but y’know, whatever.

Ahhh. College.