There once were two boys who liked the same girl
Though the thought of approaching her made them both want to hurl.
Each of the boys were both quiet and meek,
Equally handsome and equally geek.
One was named Archie, the other named Pat –
Both loved Emily, they were sure of that.
“Alas!” cried out Pat, “for I saw her first!”
“My heart,” swooned Archie, “I think it shall burst!”
Though the two were best friends, they knew they would fight
To hang out with Em, even just for one night.
Meanwhile, Emily was tot’lly clueless;
Which makes the whole story quite a true mess.
One fair day the boys saw they had a chance
To get a date to the Mistletoe Dance.
“I pray," said Archie, "that she will just say yes.
That would rid me of all my distress."
And as he went to go find dear Emily,
He could hear the gods whisper "Victory."
Pat had a different wish for the dance,
And that was to simply start a romance.
"I pray," said Pat, "that we dance together
Because that will lead to love forever."
Emily, however, wished for much more.
She wanted a night like none she'd had before.
"I pray," said she, "that the boy who wins me
cares more than anyone; that is the key."
The next day, Archie asked her to be his date.
He beat Pat to it, and Pat was too late.
Emily said yes just as Archie hoped
But since Pat was his friend, he did not gloat.
Instead, he waited for the night calmly,
Did not act out of the ordinary.
But the day of the dance, something was wrong:
His throat was sore, his ears rang like a gong.
His temperature was one hundred two
"Emily," he croaked, "I can't dance with you."
She was very upset to lose her date,
But Emily thought, "It must fate."
She decided to go to the dance stag
Hoping it wouldn't be a total drag.
Pat didn't think he'd have much fun either
But Em would be there; he'd at least get to see her.
The music was loud, the dancing was fast,
Pat was nervous, but soon it had passed
For when he saw Emily all dressed up
He was overcome with feelings of love.
They shyly locked eyes from across the room
But soon were so close, Pat could smell her perfume.
Luckily for them, the music slowed down
(For when Pat boogied, he looked like a clown).
But a slow dance, he could do, and they swayed
Until the Boyz II Men song began to fade.
Neither wanted the three minutes to end;
They were smitten, neither had to pretend.
The night was grand for Pat and Emily,
And they walked home together happily.
None of our heroes would have ever guessed
That they'd get their wish: Archie his yes,
Pat his dance, and Emily her suitor:
A boy who truly desired to woo her.
People get what they want: fame, love, glory!
But how they get it is another story.
Fate and destiny can be quite tricky,
You can get your 'yes' but still get sick(y).
Some days you'll be crushed by the fortune wheel,
But some days you'll be on top: what a deal!
‘Tis the end of my tale, hope ‘twasn’t a fright,
To all a good Christmas, and to all a good night!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Oh, The Mystery
It was one o’clock in the morning and I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised that I was very awake, vaguely alert, and only halfway through my to-do list. I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have started my night by re-watching the second season of the OC. That probably wasn’t going to help me in my Literature of Icelandic Societies class, for which I still had to concoct an eight page paper for.
Yeah, I probably should have started with the paper.
And not the OC.
Or the two hours of Farmville …
Going on three.
Oi, I really should have put procrastination on my to-do list because then I would be crossing things off like a boss. I wanted to do well in my class, but my lima beans were getting soggy and my cows needed to be brushed. I couldn’t let my cows go un-brushed, could I?!
I tended the last of my crops and peaced out of Farmville. I had to write this paper!
I opened a blank document and put on my glasses (because obviously if I look smarter, my papers will sound better). Just as my index finger hit the first key, my phone rang. A TEXT MESSAGE!
Well, I had to look at it; a sensible girl knows that curiosity killed that cat as well as her will to work. So I couldn’t just sit there wondering!
Oh, huh, it was a text from a number I had never seen before! “Creepy things.” That’s all it said! I figured it had to be from someone I knew on campus. So I texted back, “Creepier things!”
The moment the text sent, I felt as though I had opened Pandora’s box. My phone was convulsing with text messages from multiple numbers that I had never seen before:
“this is a super creepy message for christine” … I was confused. My name was definitely Christina, with an “a,” right? RIGHT?!
“Christina, don’t look in the closet. Its not safe tonight.” ... I looked up and my closet was wide open, revealing nothing but a few sequined dresses and a fur coat (don’t judge, I promise that someday when I marry rich all of my wardrobe decisions will finally make sense). Oooh. Scary.
“mmm … im waiting” … For what?! An apostrophe between your “I” and “m?” Listen buster, only you can prevent bad grammar.
“U should really close ur windows its dangerous” … Now I was getting kind of perturbed. My window was closed with the blinds shut. And why would it be dangerous? If anyone tried to climb through my window, they would immediately be sucked into the abyss that is my laundry pile. The chance of survival is minimal, so yeah, I guess it would be dangerous, but not for me!
“ill see you soon – the devil” … I wasn’t aware that the devil had a South Carolina area code! But he’ll see me soon, eh? Did I say yes to a date that I shouldn’t have?
I imagined someone on campus going to a study group and giving everyone my number to pass the time by creeping me out and seeing what kind of pathetic response I could render. I hoped it wasn’t a malicious thing because I saw Carrie and I know what bullying does to people.
And then that familiar “POP” came from my computer.
“You’ve been mystery googled!” my friend wrote,
I had had enough of stupid messages that night, but at least I knew who he was.
“What in the name of all things Blondie is mystery googled?” I typed back, hoping this wasn’t actually going to turn into a Scream situation.
My dear friend went on to explain that he had gone onto the website, mysterygoogle.com and typed in “Text creepy things to Christina at (240) 555 – 6789.” With mysterygoogle.com, when you search you get results for the last thing that whoever was on the site searched for. Like, if I search for “How to Disapparate like Harry Potter,” then my results could be anything from “oranges” to “World’s Best Booger Stories.” It just depends on what the last person searched for. Apparently, when my friend typed his little request into mystery google, a bunch of people got it as their result.
Cute.
I have to admit, I was half furious and half impressed. My mommy always told me never to share vital information on the interweb, and I definitely do not need any more stalkers! Sheesh. But using the internet to confuse the (excuse my French) poo out of your friends? That, I’m kind of okay with, somehow.
Besides, two can play that game!
So I went to mysterygoogle.com, thought hard for a moment, and then typed: “Experienced ninja looking for a new challenge: Opus Hall 620 Michigan Avenue NE, Washington D.C. Feel free to break windows!”
Funny, right? I figured some guy dressed all in black would burst into my friend’s room with nunchucks and scare the living daylights out of him. If I was lucky, he would scream like a girl and maybe pee in his pants. But I wasn’t going to get too greedy.
Well, nothing ever happens like you plan.
Not one, not two, but eight ninjas broke into my friend’s room. And one awkward pizza delivery guy, who seemed really confused. I’m not sure what was up with that.
Anyway, they ended up pinning my friend up to the wall with ninja stars and tickling him for a good two hours. I mean, he’s fine. Completely traumatized, but still breathing and talking (though in a weird accent now). I guess I feel a little guilty. A lot guilty. Pranks should never hurt people. Pranks should result in giggling and, if you’re feeling crazy, a good fart joke.
I’ve given up mystery google cold turkey. It’s too much power.
Just remember that the internet is a vast universe of attainable knowledge. And disgusting perverts. Don’t let the urge to make fun of your friends distract you from keeping your loved ones safe. Because some ninjas don’t just tickle.
Yeah, I probably should have started with the paper.
And not the OC.
Or the two hours of Farmville …
Going on three.
Oi, I really should have put procrastination on my to-do list because then I would be crossing things off like a boss. I wanted to do well in my class, but my lima beans were getting soggy and my cows needed to be brushed. I couldn’t let my cows go un-brushed, could I?!
I tended the last of my crops and peaced out of Farmville. I had to write this paper!
I opened a blank document and put on my glasses (because obviously if I look smarter, my papers will sound better). Just as my index finger hit the first key, my phone rang. A TEXT MESSAGE!
Well, I had to look at it; a sensible girl knows that curiosity killed that cat as well as her will to work. So I couldn’t just sit there wondering!
Oh, huh, it was a text from a number I had never seen before! “Creepy things.” That’s all it said! I figured it had to be from someone I knew on campus. So I texted back, “Creepier things!”
The moment the text sent, I felt as though I had opened Pandora’s box. My phone was convulsing with text messages from multiple numbers that I had never seen before:
“this is a super creepy message for christine” … I was confused. My name was definitely Christina, with an “a,” right? RIGHT?!
“Christina, don’t look in the closet. Its not safe tonight.” ... I looked up and my closet was wide open, revealing nothing but a few sequined dresses and a fur coat (don’t judge, I promise that someday when I marry rich all of my wardrobe decisions will finally make sense). Oooh. Scary.
“mmm … im waiting” … For what?! An apostrophe between your “I” and “m?” Listen buster, only you can prevent bad grammar.
“U should really close ur windows its dangerous” … Now I was getting kind of perturbed. My window was closed with the blinds shut. And why would it be dangerous? If anyone tried to climb through my window, they would immediately be sucked into the abyss that is my laundry pile. The chance of survival is minimal, so yeah, I guess it would be dangerous, but not for me!
“ill see you soon – the devil” … I wasn’t aware that the devil had a South Carolina area code! But he’ll see me soon, eh? Did I say yes to a date that I shouldn’t have?
I imagined someone on campus going to a study group and giving everyone my number to pass the time by creeping me out and seeing what kind of pathetic response I could render. I hoped it wasn’t a malicious thing because I saw Carrie and I know what bullying does to people.
And then that familiar “POP” came from my computer.
“You’ve been mystery googled!” my friend wrote,
I had had enough of stupid messages that night, but at least I knew who he was.
“What in the name of all things Blondie is mystery googled?” I typed back, hoping this wasn’t actually going to turn into a Scream situation.
My dear friend went on to explain that he had gone onto the website, mysterygoogle.com and typed in “Text creepy things to Christina at (240) 555 – 6789.” With mysterygoogle.com, when you search you get results for the last thing that whoever was on the site searched for. Like, if I search for “How to Disapparate like Harry Potter,” then my results could be anything from “oranges” to “World’s Best Booger Stories.” It just depends on what the last person searched for. Apparently, when my friend typed his little request into mystery google, a bunch of people got it as their result.
Cute.
I have to admit, I was half furious and half impressed. My mommy always told me never to share vital information on the interweb, and I definitely do not need any more stalkers! Sheesh. But using the internet to confuse the (excuse my French) poo out of your friends? That, I’m kind of okay with, somehow.
Besides, two can play that game!
So I went to mysterygoogle.com, thought hard for a moment, and then typed: “Experienced ninja looking for a new challenge: Opus Hall 620 Michigan Avenue NE, Washington D.C. Feel free to break windows!”
Funny, right? I figured some guy dressed all in black would burst into my friend’s room with nunchucks and scare the living daylights out of him. If I was lucky, he would scream like a girl and maybe pee in his pants. But I wasn’t going to get too greedy.
Well, nothing ever happens like you plan.
Not one, not two, but eight ninjas broke into my friend’s room. And one awkward pizza delivery guy, who seemed really confused. I’m not sure what was up with that.
Anyway, they ended up pinning my friend up to the wall with ninja stars and tickling him for a good two hours. I mean, he’s fine. Completely traumatized, but still breathing and talking (though in a weird accent now). I guess I feel a little guilty. A lot guilty. Pranks should never hurt people. Pranks should result in giggling and, if you’re feeling crazy, a good fart joke.
I’ve given up mystery google cold turkey. It’s too much power.
Just remember that the internet is a vast universe of attainable knowledge. And disgusting perverts. Don’t let the urge to make fun of your friends distract you from keeping your loved ones safe. Because some ninjas don’t just tickle.
Happy Vetrans Day
My alarm went off at 7:00 A.M. as usual. It might have been light outside, but I can never be sure at 7:00 A.M, really.
Approximately 20 snooze buttons later, I rolled out of my bed. Which was a tremendously bad idea because my bed is lofted. Like, a lot.
Luckily, I landed right on my laundry basket. The very same laundry basket that was filled with clean clothes. And, you know, surrounded by all of my dirty ones waiting for their turn. Well, they were all dirty now!
I tripped over the massive pile of Target merch and fumbled for the light. Maybe those super intense blinds we put on our windows weren’t a good idea. It was like a cold winter’s night in my room – perfect for hibernating, not good for functioning.
I used the light of my angry alarm clock to find the switch. The CV light seemed creepier than usual, casting an eerie gray light over my normally cheerful pink room. And my hallway was … silent? That never happens. I figured something had to be wrong. Maybe I forgot to change my clock and was actually an hour behind the rest of the world. Or maybe everyone had been murdered by some psychotic mask-wearing, axe-wielding, smelly old ghost murderer. Not like a murderer who kills ghosts. That would be dumb. No, this was probably a murderer who died but left his soul on Earth to prey on sweet innocent little Quinnies like myself.
Ew, was that cold sweat? Ugh, gross! I didn’t have time to fear for my life anyway. I only had twenty minutes before I was fashionably late and I desperately needed a shower. I bathed as quickly as I could, hoping to avoid a Psycho scene in my fluffy pink bathroom. I hear blood usually ruins hot pink towels, and that would just be such a mess.
I tried to pick the clean clothes out of the massive pile (no guarantees!) and practically poured mascara on my face. I glanced in the mirror before brushing my teeth and saw in the reflection that November 11th had been a big red circle around it on my calendar. Well, today was November 11th. Oh no. I hoped that the ghost murderer hadn’t come in the middle of the night to circle the day that he would come to chop off all my toes. That would have been kind of anti-climactic.
I held my breath and turned to inspect the calendar. Something was typed under the obscenely big red circle and I had to squint to make it out … Veterinarians’ Day? Was that even real? It definitely wasn’t terrifying. My heart stopped racing and I turned back to my morning routine.
Then it came to me. It was Vegetarians’ Day! Obviously.
I wondered why I had decorated the day so enthusiastically. I love Nug Night too much to ever even think about being a vegetarian.
I brushed my teeth until I was satisfied with their squeaky clean-ness, grabbed my books, and headed out the door. It was a little gray outside. Not horror movie gray, though. I had been so off on that!
I started off to my class, feeling rather pleased that I had solved the November 11th mystery. At the CV gate I ran into a girl from my Spanish class. I remembered that time she refused to eat a chicken quesadilla because she was vegetarian. Today was her time to shine! I gave her a big hug, a “Happy Vegetarians’ Day,” and waved good-bye to her as I continued the trek to Pangborn.
With two minutes to spare before I was ten minutes late, I was almost to my Statistics of Canned Foods class when it dawned on me: wasn’t Vegetarians’ Day technically a holiday? Didn’t the government get a day off? I could be president if I really wanted to be (according to my mommy!) so why didn’t I have the day off, too?
Yes, I decided. A day off was exactly what I needed. I could fix my horrendous laundry situation, fix the blinds in my room, and finally catch up on sleep so maybe I could start hitting the snooze button only, like, ten times each morning. That would be refreshing.
I started walking back to my room, but stopped. The guilt was setting in. Not the guilt for missing class, but the guilt of wasting a perfectly good day off doing chores. I’m young and healthy and should be exploring the United States like Sacajawea, I said to myself. Even the sky was agreeing with me as the sun started to peep out from behind the clouds.
The beautiful city of D.C. was calling to me: Christina! Museums are free! Christina! There are so many trees to sit under while you watch tourists make fools of themselves! You know you want to!
I did want to. I wanted to eat lunch in some weird café with a crazy name that I didn’t understand. And then I wanted a fancy cupcake. I wasn’t going to be picky about where it was from. There were more important things to worry about. Like if there were any jazz clubs open at nine in the morning. I definitely needed to hit up a jazz club.
Before I could start off on any fabulous adventures, I needed to go back to my room to get my SmartTrip. I rarely carry it with me, you see, because I have a knack for losing things. I practically skipped back to Quinn, all the while imagining my Statistics teacher drawling out my name while taking attendance. “Wolfgram? … Wolfgram?” Oh, how delightful!
I opened my door and rushed in to find my card, but of course slipped on a rogue pair of sweatpants on the floor. I wondered if really should just take a little time to do laundry. I would still have the afternoon to gallivant around the city.
I gathered all of my clothes and dumped them into my hamper. The hamper that was supposed to be under my bed.
Bed.
I probably had time for a wee nap as well. I mean, it was vital to get back on some sort of coherent sleeping schedule was so important, and what would help more than taking a forty-five minute nap at 9:30 A.M.?
I crawled into bed and told myself to dream of the adventures I would have on Vegetarians’ Day. Maybe I could dance on one of the floats in the parade.
Next thing I knew, it was dark. Whatever, it was always dark in my room thanks to our fancy blinds. But then I checked the clock. 9:30 P.M.?! I had slept through the entire day! I had missed everything! Even the Vegetarians’ Day parade!
Moral of the story? Over-thinking leads to oversleeping.
Approximately 20 snooze buttons later, I rolled out of my bed. Which was a tremendously bad idea because my bed is lofted. Like, a lot.
Luckily, I landed right on my laundry basket. The very same laundry basket that was filled with clean clothes. And, you know, surrounded by all of my dirty ones waiting for their turn. Well, they were all dirty now!
I tripped over the massive pile of Target merch and fumbled for the light. Maybe those super intense blinds we put on our windows weren’t a good idea. It was like a cold winter’s night in my room – perfect for hibernating, not good for functioning.
I used the light of my angry alarm clock to find the switch. The CV light seemed creepier than usual, casting an eerie gray light over my normally cheerful pink room. And my hallway was … silent? That never happens. I figured something had to be wrong. Maybe I forgot to change my clock and was actually an hour behind the rest of the world. Or maybe everyone had been murdered by some psychotic mask-wearing, axe-wielding, smelly old ghost murderer. Not like a murderer who kills ghosts. That would be dumb. No, this was probably a murderer who died but left his soul on Earth to prey on sweet innocent little Quinnies like myself.
Ew, was that cold sweat? Ugh, gross! I didn’t have time to fear for my life anyway. I only had twenty minutes before I was fashionably late and I desperately needed a shower. I bathed as quickly as I could, hoping to avoid a Psycho scene in my fluffy pink bathroom. I hear blood usually ruins hot pink towels, and that would just be such a mess.
I tried to pick the clean clothes out of the massive pile (no guarantees!) and practically poured mascara on my face. I glanced in the mirror before brushing my teeth and saw in the reflection that November 11th had been a big red circle around it on my calendar. Well, today was November 11th. Oh no. I hoped that the ghost murderer hadn’t come in the middle of the night to circle the day that he would come to chop off all my toes. That would have been kind of anti-climactic.
I held my breath and turned to inspect the calendar. Something was typed under the obscenely big red circle and I had to squint to make it out … Veterinarians’ Day? Was that even real? It definitely wasn’t terrifying. My heart stopped racing and I turned back to my morning routine.
Then it came to me. It was Vegetarians’ Day! Obviously.
I wondered why I had decorated the day so enthusiastically. I love Nug Night too much to ever even think about being a vegetarian.
I brushed my teeth until I was satisfied with their squeaky clean-ness, grabbed my books, and headed out the door. It was a little gray outside. Not horror movie gray, though. I had been so off on that!
I started off to my class, feeling rather pleased that I had solved the November 11th mystery. At the CV gate I ran into a girl from my Spanish class. I remembered that time she refused to eat a chicken quesadilla because she was vegetarian. Today was her time to shine! I gave her a big hug, a “Happy Vegetarians’ Day,” and waved good-bye to her as I continued the trek to Pangborn.
With two minutes to spare before I was ten minutes late, I was almost to my Statistics of Canned Foods class when it dawned on me: wasn’t Vegetarians’ Day technically a holiday? Didn’t the government get a day off? I could be president if I really wanted to be (according to my mommy!) so why didn’t I have the day off, too?
Yes, I decided. A day off was exactly what I needed. I could fix my horrendous laundry situation, fix the blinds in my room, and finally catch up on sleep so maybe I could start hitting the snooze button only, like, ten times each morning. That would be refreshing.
I started walking back to my room, but stopped. The guilt was setting in. Not the guilt for missing class, but the guilt of wasting a perfectly good day off doing chores. I’m young and healthy and should be exploring the United States like Sacajawea, I said to myself. Even the sky was agreeing with me as the sun started to peep out from behind the clouds.
The beautiful city of D.C. was calling to me: Christina! Museums are free! Christina! There are so many trees to sit under while you watch tourists make fools of themselves! You know you want to!
I did want to. I wanted to eat lunch in some weird café with a crazy name that I didn’t understand. And then I wanted a fancy cupcake. I wasn’t going to be picky about where it was from. There were more important things to worry about. Like if there were any jazz clubs open at nine in the morning. I definitely needed to hit up a jazz club.
Before I could start off on any fabulous adventures, I needed to go back to my room to get my SmartTrip. I rarely carry it with me, you see, because I have a knack for losing things. I practically skipped back to Quinn, all the while imagining my Statistics teacher drawling out my name while taking attendance. “Wolfgram? … Wolfgram?” Oh, how delightful!
I opened my door and rushed in to find my card, but of course slipped on a rogue pair of sweatpants on the floor. I wondered if really should just take a little time to do laundry. I would still have the afternoon to gallivant around the city.
I gathered all of my clothes and dumped them into my hamper. The hamper that was supposed to be under my bed.
Bed.
I probably had time for a wee nap as well. I mean, it was vital to get back on some sort of coherent sleeping schedule was so important, and what would help more than taking a forty-five minute nap at 9:30 A.M.?
I crawled into bed and told myself to dream of the adventures I would have on Vegetarians’ Day. Maybe I could dance on one of the floats in the parade.
Next thing I knew, it was dark. Whatever, it was always dark in my room thanks to our fancy blinds. But then I checked the clock. 9:30 P.M.?! I had slept through the entire day! I had missed everything! Even the Vegetarians’ Day parade!
Moral of the story? Over-thinking leads to oversleeping.
Bloody Hell!
“Are you or have you ever been a prostitute?”
Well, I don’t hear that every day.
I click “NO,” because obviously the American Red Cross wouldn’t like it if I joked about life on the street corner. Not that I know what that’s like.
I deny that I’ve ever dated a monkey from Africa or that I lived in Europe during the ‘70’s. I finish the questionnaire and stand up. The nurse comes back and tells me to sit down next to her. I wonder what kind of ridiculous questions she has for me. How odd to be interrogated – I thought pretty much anybody could donate blood!
“Okay, please roll up your sleeves so I can see both of your arms.”
My arms check out.
“Now I need your finger.”
Ha! What, was she going to check my fingerprints or something?
But then she pulls out a needle. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. NOT OKAY!
I look away, but as she squeezes my finger I know that there’s blood. And she’s taking it. Taking it away! For some sick, mutilated experiment! The HORROR!
I feel her put on a band-aid, which obviously makes my finger feel 100% better. The nurse gives me a troubled look.
“Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale, there.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile. “I just hate the sight of blood. Or anything that has to do with blood.”
I ignore the nurse’s puzzled stare as we walk to the next station where she hands me what appears to be a massive, dead jellyfish. Upon closer inspection, I realize that these are bags, with tubes. Bags with tubes that are going to be filled. With my blood. I gag a little. No one notices.
I sit next to a calm looking chap and try not look at the people already laying on the over-sized lawn chairs or their disgusting bags of bodily fluids.
“So, come here often?” I ask, too nervous to consider personal space.
“Actually, yeah, I do,” he says, all cool and unfazed like we aren’t surrounded by needles and blood bags. “I am a double red.”
“Like, what? Communism?”
“No, like I give twice as much blood. And then they take out the red blood cells out of half of it and put the plasma back in my body. It takes twice the time but I think …”
I feel my face whiten. It was a bad idea to be social at a blood drive. Where there is blood.
Someone calls my name and I sheepishly hand my tubey bags to a friendly-looking woman in white who tells me to sit down. I try to get comfortable, but I feel like I can hear the blood leaving the veins of my neighbors. And it is not pleasant.
Suddenly the girl next to me starts to convulse and then flops over in her chair. I gasp as she is surrounded by a group of people in white, all touching her face and repeating her name.
“Is that going to happen to me?” I ask my white-clad friend who is hooking up my empty bags.
“No, honey, you won’t faint. Now just hold still.”
“Hold still? Why? Is it time to put the …”
And then a needle is in my arm. Oh the awkward sensation! My elbow hurts, my hand is numb, my stomach is definitely not okay with this! I debate telling the nurse that I am not cut out for this job and I need to leave because I am late for an appointment with a cat or the president or something.
Instead, I look away. There is not a needle in my arm. I am not strapped to an old lawn chair in the Great Room of the Pryz. No, sir, I am not in the least bit uncomfortable. Or at least this is what I try to tell myself. It doesn’t work. My arm still hurts. There is still blood leaving my body.
The two girls sitting across from me burst into genuine laughter. Oh, hi, girls why do you get to party at the blood drive while I’m sitting here holding my breath so I don’t vomit on myself? I can almost feel my blood pressure rising; am I angry?! Yeah, I’m pretty pissed. I am miserable and everyone else is having the time of their lives while their blood is getting sucked right on out of them. WHY ME? WHYYYYY?
Okay, fine. It’s my fault I didn’t come prepared with a friend or any hilarious jokes. Sorry about that, American Red Cross! Next time I will bring a magazine or maybe a funny YouTube video or something. No really, if this goes faster, next time I will be in a better mood. Actually, I take that back. If this goes quickly, I will never donate blood again. Instead, I will take on the life of Mother Teresa. I might even consider getting within twelve feet of babies or (gulp) elderly people! Just, please, blood, pump faster. Gag.
Wait, this is already a really nice thing to do. People need my awesome O+ blood. Yeah, I’m going to be queasy for, like, an hour, but what about people in car accidents? Or freak machete accidents? They need this blood way more than whiney little me does.
“Are you okay, there?” one of the nice women in white asks. I realize that there are two single tears down my face. How emotional. And ridiculous.
“Yeah, there’s just … a needle in my arm,” I say slowly, remembering that my stomach really wants to yack right now. “Am I almost done?”
She checks my bags. “About three more minutes,” she says with a nice smile. Ugh, she’s so nice. I bet she doesn’t even wince when she gives blood because she is such a nice person.
But three minutes! That’s better than three hours. I mean, my arm must be dry as a raisin now, but just three more minutes. There are so many good things that only take three minutes. Like eating a Chipotle burrito. And singing a Taylor Swift song. Yes, I can accept three minutes. I have the power! I am so excited, I think I feel a song coming on …
“Okay, I think you’re set,” my nurse friend says, starting to undo the tape holding the needle in my arm. And then I saw blood.
And passed out.
Oops.
Well, I don’t hear that every day.
I click “NO,” because obviously the American Red Cross wouldn’t like it if I joked about life on the street corner. Not that I know what that’s like.
I deny that I’ve ever dated a monkey from Africa or that I lived in Europe during the ‘70’s. I finish the questionnaire and stand up. The nurse comes back and tells me to sit down next to her. I wonder what kind of ridiculous questions she has for me. How odd to be interrogated – I thought pretty much anybody could donate blood!
“Okay, please roll up your sleeves so I can see both of your arms.”
My arms check out.
“Now I need your finger.”
Ha! What, was she going to check my fingerprints or something?
But then she pulls out a needle. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. NOT OKAY!
I look away, but as she squeezes my finger I know that there’s blood. And she’s taking it. Taking it away! For some sick, mutilated experiment! The HORROR!
I feel her put on a band-aid, which obviously makes my finger feel 100% better. The nurse gives me a troubled look.
“Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale, there.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile. “I just hate the sight of blood. Or anything that has to do with blood.”
I ignore the nurse’s puzzled stare as we walk to the next station where she hands me what appears to be a massive, dead jellyfish. Upon closer inspection, I realize that these are bags, with tubes. Bags with tubes that are going to be filled. With my blood. I gag a little. No one notices.
I sit next to a calm looking chap and try not look at the people already laying on the over-sized lawn chairs or their disgusting bags of bodily fluids.
“So, come here often?” I ask, too nervous to consider personal space.
“Actually, yeah, I do,” he says, all cool and unfazed like we aren’t surrounded by needles and blood bags. “I am a double red.”
“Like, what? Communism?”
“No, like I give twice as much blood. And then they take out the red blood cells out of half of it and put the plasma back in my body. It takes twice the time but I think …”
I feel my face whiten. It was a bad idea to be social at a blood drive. Where there is blood.
Someone calls my name and I sheepishly hand my tubey bags to a friendly-looking woman in white who tells me to sit down. I try to get comfortable, but I feel like I can hear the blood leaving the veins of my neighbors. And it is not pleasant.
Suddenly the girl next to me starts to convulse and then flops over in her chair. I gasp as she is surrounded by a group of people in white, all touching her face and repeating her name.
“Is that going to happen to me?” I ask my white-clad friend who is hooking up my empty bags.
“No, honey, you won’t faint. Now just hold still.”
“Hold still? Why? Is it time to put the …”
And then a needle is in my arm. Oh the awkward sensation! My elbow hurts, my hand is numb, my stomach is definitely not okay with this! I debate telling the nurse that I am not cut out for this job and I need to leave because I am late for an appointment with a cat or the president or something.
Instead, I look away. There is not a needle in my arm. I am not strapped to an old lawn chair in the Great Room of the Pryz. No, sir, I am not in the least bit uncomfortable. Or at least this is what I try to tell myself. It doesn’t work. My arm still hurts. There is still blood leaving my body.
The two girls sitting across from me burst into genuine laughter. Oh, hi, girls why do you get to party at the blood drive while I’m sitting here holding my breath so I don’t vomit on myself? I can almost feel my blood pressure rising; am I angry?! Yeah, I’m pretty pissed. I am miserable and everyone else is having the time of their lives while their blood is getting sucked right on out of them. WHY ME? WHYYYYY?
Okay, fine. It’s my fault I didn’t come prepared with a friend or any hilarious jokes. Sorry about that, American Red Cross! Next time I will bring a magazine or maybe a funny YouTube video or something. No really, if this goes faster, next time I will be in a better mood. Actually, I take that back. If this goes quickly, I will never donate blood again. Instead, I will take on the life of Mother Teresa. I might even consider getting within twelve feet of babies or (gulp) elderly people! Just, please, blood, pump faster. Gag.
Wait, this is already a really nice thing to do. People need my awesome O+ blood. Yeah, I’m going to be queasy for, like, an hour, but what about people in car accidents? Or freak machete accidents? They need this blood way more than whiney little me does.
“Are you okay, there?” one of the nice women in white asks. I realize that there are two single tears down my face. How emotional. And ridiculous.
“Yeah, there’s just … a needle in my arm,” I say slowly, remembering that my stomach really wants to yack right now. “Am I almost done?”
She checks my bags. “About three more minutes,” she says with a nice smile. Ugh, she’s so nice. I bet she doesn’t even wince when she gives blood because she is such a nice person.
But three minutes! That’s better than three hours. I mean, my arm must be dry as a raisin now, but just three more minutes. There are so many good things that only take three minutes. Like eating a Chipotle burrito. And singing a Taylor Swift song. Yes, I can accept three minutes. I have the power! I am so excited, I think I feel a song coming on …
“Okay, I think you’re set,” my nurse friend says, starting to undo the tape holding the needle in my arm. And then I saw blood.
And passed out.
Oops.
A Knight's Fail
Monday. Sweatpants. Stayed up all night writing a paper.
Not pretty.
My general hideousness was interfering with everyday tasks. I left my cardinal card in my room, was late to my first class, and therefore late to breakfast, my favorite meal of the day. My head was starting to hurt from the weight of my ugly hair and I managed to spill coffee all over my already disturbingly sloppy outfit.
As I was walking out of the Pryz, I felt a strange tug on my shoulder. My book bag felt heavier than usual, and I debated taking out some of the … RIIIIIIIP.
I watched all my possessions fall loudly down the main stairs as I mourned the huge hole in my bag that I would never be able to fix because I was too busy thinking about Spongebob Squarepants when my mom tried to teach me how to sew. I tried to gather everything up as quickly as possible, practically running for the glass doors so I could get back to my dorm and kill myself.
A boy walked in front of me and opened the door. I got ready to thank him for helping out little ol’ me by holding the door open for me, but as I rushed through the door … SMACK. Yeah, that’s right - glass door, right in the kisser. Not only did he not hold the door open for me, he ignored my howl of pain as I withered to the ground, still holding all of my textbooks and the model of the solar system I was supposed to hand in for my Literature of Space Odyssey class.
My day had been too awful. My favorite bag had a hole in it. I was wearing coffee-stained sweatpants in public. I was not letting him get away with this. I shoved my way through the doors.
“Excuse me, that is no way to treat a damsel in distress!” I shouted as everyone sitting at the picnic tables turned in unison, ready for a fight.
The boy kept walking, either really oblivious or kind of cruel.
“Helloooo!” I yelled, starting to realize that I was fighting a losing battle. “As a member of the weaker, softer sex I really needed some help with that door back there!” He finally turned around. Probably because I said sex. Ugh.
“Well, sorry,” he muttered, obviously scared that I might get close enough for him to smell me.
“I have to give birth, you know,” I said, maybe kind of sort of getting a little hysterical. “LABOR PAINS! EVER TRIED ‘EM! NOT PLEASANT! The LEAST you could do is hold the door open for me. Chivalry cannot be THAT dead. Puleeze.”
The boy finally looked me in the eye. Oh, he was kind of cute!
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Chivalry is dead as a doornail.”
Okay, never mind. Not cute.
And, dead as a doornail? What does that even mean?
I huffed back to my dorm, wondering if something dead as a door whatsit could be resuscitated. As I approached the glass doors to my building, I caught sight of myself. I didn’t even look like a woman; I looked like a busty thirteen year old boy who is too wild to wear jeans and owns only two pairs of sweatpants that he alternates wearing on a daily basis. No wonder no one wanted to get chivalric with me!
Desperate times called for desperate make-overs. I showered and made sure I used extra fruity-smelling shampoo, only to douse my head in fragrant product before blow-drying the living daylights out of it. I covered up the dark circles under my eyes with about five pounds of Maybelline and tried to make my lips as pouty as possible because nothing says “open the door for me” like Pamela Anderson lips. I mean, with that face, Pam has probably never opened a door for herself in her life. Oh, wait …
I shook off the idea of plastic surgery, put on a pink dress and high heels, and walked as confidently and femininely as I possibly could (which is REALLY hard when you’re suddenly three inches taller than usual) out of my dorm and toward the Pryz.
I reached the CV gate right before a big group of guys did, so I held the gate open for them. The last one out turned around and said, “Thanks!” And I turned red and said, “DAMMIT!” I hadn’t meant to be such a gentleman.
At least I sort of learned something. Chivalry is dead. It died with King Arthur, and that’s kind of okay. We don’t live in a world of dragons and princesses who can’t tie their own shoes. Instead of love letters, we get texts like, “Gurl, u r 2 hot. Luv <3.” And, yeah it’s creepy and the grammar is bad enough to make you want to throw your cell phone in a moat, but we don’t have moats and we don’t have handkerchiefs to give knights because I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a handkerchief and come on a handkerchief is kind of gross anyway because Kleenex are much more sanitary!! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!
But, luckily, Chivalry has a cousin and his name is Respect. We all get to wear pants, so we should all hold doors open for each other. It shouldn’t be a treat to be in the presence of good manners! But, guys, if you are looking for a date to the Homecoming Dance, it might interest you to know that girls really do notice when you hold the door open for them. Much easier than a joust, huh?
Not pretty.
My general hideousness was interfering with everyday tasks. I left my cardinal card in my room, was late to my first class, and therefore late to breakfast, my favorite meal of the day. My head was starting to hurt from the weight of my ugly hair and I managed to spill coffee all over my already disturbingly sloppy outfit.
As I was walking out of the Pryz, I felt a strange tug on my shoulder. My book bag felt heavier than usual, and I debated taking out some of the … RIIIIIIIP.
I watched all my possessions fall loudly down the main stairs as I mourned the huge hole in my bag that I would never be able to fix because I was too busy thinking about Spongebob Squarepants when my mom tried to teach me how to sew. I tried to gather everything up as quickly as possible, practically running for the glass doors so I could get back to my dorm and kill myself.
A boy walked in front of me and opened the door. I got ready to thank him for helping out little ol’ me by holding the door open for me, but as I rushed through the door … SMACK. Yeah, that’s right - glass door, right in the kisser. Not only did he not hold the door open for me, he ignored my howl of pain as I withered to the ground, still holding all of my textbooks and the model of the solar system I was supposed to hand in for my Literature of Space Odyssey class.
My day had been too awful. My favorite bag had a hole in it. I was wearing coffee-stained sweatpants in public. I was not letting him get away with this. I shoved my way through the doors.
“Excuse me, that is no way to treat a damsel in distress!” I shouted as everyone sitting at the picnic tables turned in unison, ready for a fight.
The boy kept walking, either really oblivious or kind of cruel.
“Helloooo!” I yelled, starting to realize that I was fighting a losing battle. “As a member of the weaker, softer sex I really needed some help with that door back there!” He finally turned around. Probably because I said sex. Ugh.
“Well, sorry,” he muttered, obviously scared that I might get close enough for him to smell me.
“I have to give birth, you know,” I said, maybe kind of sort of getting a little hysterical. “LABOR PAINS! EVER TRIED ‘EM! NOT PLEASANT! The LEAST you could do is hold the door open for me. Chivalry cannot be THAT dead. Puleeze.”
The boy finally looked me in the eye. Oh, he was kind of cute!
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Chivalry is dead as a doornail.”
Okay, never mind. Not cute.
And, dead as a doornail? What does that even mean?
I huffed back to my dorm, wondering if something dead as a door whatsit could be resuscitated. As I approached the glass doors to my building, I caught sight of myself. I didn’t even look like a woman; I looked like a busty thirteen year old boy who is too wild to wear jeans and owns only two pairs of sweatpants that he alternates wearing on a daily basis. No wonder no one wanted to get chivalric with me!
Desperate times called for desperate make-overs. I showered and made sure I used extra fruity-smelling shampoo, only to douse my head in fragrant product before blow-drying the living daylights out of it. I covered up the dark circles under my eyes with about five pounds of Maybelline and tried to make my lips as pouty as possible because nothing says “open the door for me” like Pamela Anderson lips. I mean, with that face, Pam has probably never opened a door for herself in her life. Oh, wait …
I shook off the idea of plastic surgery, put on a pink dress and high heels, and walked as confidently and femininely as I possibly could (which is REALLY hard when you’re suddenly three inches taller than usual) out of my dorm and toward the Pryz.
I reached the CV gate right before a big group of guys did, so I held the gate open for them. The last one out turned around and said, “Thanks!” And I turned red and said, “DAMMIT!” I hadn’t meant to be such a gentleman.
At least I sort of learned something. Chivalry is dead. It died with King Arthur, and that’s kind of okay. We don’t live in a world of dragons and princesses who can’t tie their own shoes. Instead of love letters, we get texts like, “Gurl, u r 2 hot. Luv <3.” And, yeah it’s creepy and the grammar is bad enough to make you want to throw your cell phone in a moat, but we don’t have moats and we don’t have handkerchiefs to give knights because I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a handkerchief and come on a handkerchief is kind of gross anyway because Kleenex are much more sanitary!! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!
But, luckily, Chivalry has a cousin and his name is Respect. We all get to wear pants, so we should all hold doors open for each other. It shouldn’t be a treat to be in the presence of good manners! But, guys, if you are looking for a date to the Homecoming Dance, it might interest you to know that girls really do notice when you hold the door open for them. Much easier than a joust, huh?
How to Lose a Friend in Ten Days
Freshman year, everyone wanted to make friends.
People left their doors open in hopes that someone on their floor would come in and add themselves as a Facebook friend or gossip about the latest outing to Brothers. It was perfectly normal to introduce yourself to random people during dinnertime at the Pryz or try to sit next to people you didn’t know during classes.
As a sophomore, I find that the atmosphere has changed quite a bit. It’s not a bad thing, but people have found cliques and usually have someone they know to sit next to in class. Plus, now I hear things like,
“I have too many friends.”
Really? Is that even possible? Apparently it was for my good ol’ buddy Derrick.
“No, seriously! I have way too many friends! I can’t keep up with them all,” Derrick whined over breakfast. “I don’t even know why some of us hang out. We don’t actually like each other!”
Derrick went on to explain that some of the friends he had made in his desperation to avoid loneliness his freshman year were starting to get on his nerves. They didn’t have anything in common:. Derrick is a homebody and prefers to stay in and order Boli’s on Friday nights and he was sick of his friends pressuring him to leave the coziness of his room to be squashed between two complete awkwardly dancing strangers on the dance floor at Hawk ‘n’ Dove. They had signed up for a lot of the same classes as Derrick and were constantly asking for homework help. Plus, according to Derrick, they kind of smelled.
“They’re not bad people,” Derrick reflected, “they’re just not the kind of people I really click with.”
After listening to Derrick’s predicament, I had to wonder: how many people are stuck in friendships that really aren’t beneficial to anyone anymore. Are people too lazy to make sure that their friends are people that they truly enjoy and can relate to on a daily basis? Is there a way to painlessly ease yourself out of a relationship that is becoming painful to maintain?
I decided to help Derrick. We sat down and made a list of things he could do to subtly drive his “friends” away. Derrick thought it would be a good idea to use the yuck factor and use it A LOT. He started talking with his mouth full, coughing all over everyone’s Pryz feasts, and I’m pretty sure he stopped showering because he was emitting an odor that could choke a cow. I was even having trouble staying friends with the guy!
But his unwanted friends stuck by. They still followed Derrick to class, they continued to invite him out, and Derrick was confused. Surely, these people recognized that Derrick didn’t fit in with them. Why wasn’t a little stink sending them to the hills?
So Derrick amped up the ick. He publically announced that he needed someone to help him shave his back hair. He started borrowing people’s toothbrushes without asking. He even started wearing Crocs. It was awful.
When that didn’t even work, Derrick started getting a little rude. He constantly talked about his other, better, more beautiful friends. He purposefully ignored his unwanted friends when they talked. I knew I had to put a stop to the experiment when Derrick told the group that they were playing hide and seek, but then never left to go find them after counting to one hundred. It was just too cruel. And they obviously weren’t getting the message.
When I approached him about it, Derrick was defensive.
“You want me to just tell a bunch of people that I don’t want them in my life? That’s so rude!”
I sighed. It was true. Talking with your mouth full is a forgivable kind of rude. Telling someone that they’re not good enough to be your friend is kind of like asking for a giant wedgie. You just don’t do it.
So what do you do? Not that I’m some sort of expert, but I did watch an episode of Dr. Phil once and I think the best thing to do is to wait it out. Don’t do anything rash or hurtful, because even if someone is your unwanted friend, they’re still your friend. Don’t let the time you’ve spent together be in vain! Maybe introduce them to people you think they would be better friends with, or simply spend a little less time with them.
And keep showering. For the love of all things sacred, KEEP SHOWERING.
People left their doors open in hopes that someone on their floor would come in and add themselves as a Facebook friend or gossip about the latest outing to Brothers. It was perfectly normal to introduce yourself to random people during dinnertime at the Pryz or try to sit next to people you didn’t know during classes.
As a sophomore, I find that the atmosphere has changed quite a bit. It’s not a bad thing, but people have found cliques and usually have someone they know to sit next to in class. Plus, now I hear things like,
“I have too many friends.”
Really? Is that even possible? Apparently it was for my good ol’ buddy Derrick.
“No, seriously! I have way too many friends! I can’t keep up with them all,” Derrick whined over breakfast. “I don’t even know why some of us hang out. We don’t actually like each other!”
Derrick went on to explain that some of the friends he had made in his desperation to avoid loneliness his freshman year were starting to get on his nerves. They didn’t have anything in common:. Derrick is a homebody and prefers to stay in and order Boli’s on Friday nights and he was sick of his friends pressuring him to leave the coziness of his room to be squashed between two complete awkwardly dancing strangers on the dance floor at Hawk ‘n’ Dove. They had signed up for a lot of the same classes as Derrick and were constantly asking for homework help. Plus, according to Derrick, they kind of smelled.
“They’re not bad people,” Derrick reflected, “they’re just not the kind of people I really click with.”
After listening to Derrick’s predicament, I had to wonder: how many people are stuck in friendships that really aren’t beneficial to anyone anymore. Are people too lazy to make sure that their friends are people that they truly enjoy and can relate to on a daily basis? Is there a way to painlessly ease yourself out of a relationship that is becoming painful to maintain?
I decided to help Derrick. We sat down and made a list of things he could do to subtly drive his “friends” away. Derrick thought it would be a good idea to use the yuck factor and use it A LOT. He started talking with his mouth full, coughing all over everyone’s Pryz feasts, and I’m pretty sure he stopped showering because he was emitting an odor that could choke a cow. I was even having trouble staying friends with the guy!
But his unwanted friends stuck by. They still followed Derrick to class, they continued to invite him out, and Derrick was confused. Surely, these people recognized that Derrick didn’t fit in with them. Why wasn’t a little stink sending them to the hills?
So Derrick amped up the ick. He publically announced that he needed someone to help him shave his back hair. He started borrowing people’s toothbrushes without asking. He even started wearing Crocs. It was awful.
When that didn’t even work, Derrick started getting a little rude. He constantly talked about his other, better, more beautiful friends. He purposefully ignored his unwanted friends when they talked. I knew I had to put a stop to the experiment when Derrick told the group that they were playing hide and seek, but then never left to go find them after counting to one hundred. It was just too cruel. And they obviously weren’t getting the message.
When I approached him about it, Derrick was defensive.
“You want me to just tell a bunch of people that I don’t want them in my life? That’s so rude!”
I sighed. It was true. Talking with your mouth full is a forgivable kind of rude. Telling someone that they’re not good enough to be your friend is kind of like asking for a giant wedgie. You just don’t do it.
So what do you do? Not that I’m some sort of expert, but I did watch an episode of Dr. Phil once and I think the best thing to do is to wait it out. Don’t do anything rash or hurtful, because even if someone is your unwanted friend, they’re still your friend. Don’t let the time you’ve spent together be in vain! Maybe introduce them to people you think they would be better friends with, or simply spend a little less time with them.
And keep showering. For the love of all things sacred, KEEP SHOWERING.
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