i was a teenage blog queen, part 1

Okay, I have decided that since this past week has been chaos and I have failed you all as a blogging mentor, I will make not one...*NOOOOO!*...not two...*NOOOOO!*...not three...*NOOO--oh wait. Yes, three.* THREE posts in ONE day. Basically that will consist of me breaking this post up into three random pieces, but it makes me feel productive, so I don't really care how inane my reasoning is. Oh, and while in deep and solitary contemplation of this entry, I realized I ought to detail my daily schedule so you can track my every movement and better learn the secrets of my divine being. So:

Monday
2:30-5:20: Dangerous Books--A class about books that can kill. And by "books" they actually mean "jagged pieces of flying metal," so at least it's never boring.
6:00-7:30: Tai Chi--In which I am actually required to move with something sort of like grace. Thus far, I am the star pupil, if "star pupil" means "has not yet broken every one of her limbs."
8:00: Arrested Development--IS. THE. BEST. SHOW. ON. TELEVISION. We watch it at my mod, usually with great quantities of ice cream, though this week we feasted upon the three-layer French chocolate mousse cake I got from Trader Joe's--mmmm. In an only marginally related but incredibly important question, do they have moose in France?

Tuesday
11:00-4:00: Work at the Eric Carle Museum--Because I am a picture book art pimp.
6:00-9:00: International Graphic Novel--A.K.A. Comic Book Class. A.K.A. I love my life.

Wednesday:
2:30-5:20: Lost in the Story--A fiction writing class, which I rock, because people can't get on me for things like "truth" and "perjury."
9:00: Lost--Whoa, I never realized what a "lost" day Wednesday is. Lost is watched in Kitty's mod with great quantities of angst, gasping, and confusion. I have no idea what the hell is going on in the show and every time an episode finishes I'm left with the burning desire to commit mass homicide, but I still watch faithfully.

Thursday
11:00-4:00: Work
8:00: Alias--Is soooooo bad now. Like, "we don't think anyone's watching so we're going to have an episode where Marshall takes some guy's eye out with a spork" bad. I keep watching, though, on the off-off-off-chance that someone will come up with a way to salvage it, which is super more unlikely now that Jennifer Garner has been impregnated by the Affleck. *Is it weird that every time I hear "Affleck" I also hear a little duck somewhere going "AFFFF-LECK?"*

There is nothing in the world quite as good as grilled cheese and tomato soup on a day of this temperature. Except maybe a Jacuzzi filled with hot chocolate. Okay, yeah, that's definitely better. However, since they do not sell Jacuzzis filled with hot chocolate at the Bridge *which, Hampshire admissions, if you're reading, they TOTALLY should*, I had to settle for cheesy/soupy goodness. This is actually my first trip to the Bridge this week, as on Sunday I carried out a mysterious and dangerous task known as grocery shopping. Not voluntarily, mind you--Kate came to my door at 1:30 and pretty literally dragged me from my bed, but I still feel pride. I even got a Stop n' Shop card while I was there, so I saved $25, which I immediately called and told my mom about. Because I'm...cool. I bought actual food, too, like corn and broccolli and mousse cake. AND the other day, I cooked a chicken! Well, not so much "a" chicken as a frozen chicken breast, but coming from the girl who once seriously effed up a box of Kraft's Easy Mac, that's quite an accomplishment. I even used spices! Well...pepper. I'm not about to go too crazy with this whole "cooking" thing--after all, I have a reputation to uphold. A reputation as a semi-illiterate bag lady, but a reputation nonetheless.

In updating, I'm going to go backward, because I'm innovative, edgy, and unpredictable. Also I have the memory span of a retarded squirrel. So: yesterday I went to work, where I entered 80 membership surveys into a spreadsheet. This is not nearly as monotonous as it sounds when they put you in the room with the lollipops, Hershey bars, and chocolate biscotti. After work I went to the Dakin Living Room because the International Studies office was having a presentation on Jan Term trips and free pizza, and if you've formed some sort of theory that free food controls about 88.9% of my major life decisions, you are correct. I really want to go on the trip to Ireland, since it's my ancestral homeland--or the only one I can claim with any certainty, anyway, since my grandfather on my Dad's side goes from telling us that we're descended from African kings to saying he's almost positive we're the last scions of Christ. Plus, Irish accents are pretty much the hottest things on Earth. The trip is to the west of Ireland--Galway, specifically--and it's studying land and literature, which means it's basically set up so the science kids can go off and talk to sheep while the writer kids roll around on the moors and get in touch with the essence of the sheep. It'll be sweet. After the meeting, I went to comic book class, where we talked about Mexican comic books, most of which are apparently pretty bad. We also talked about Rius, who came up with that whole "for beginners" book format, though his were all like "Trotsky for Beginners" and "The Murder of Capitalist Pigs for Beginners." Ironically, when you do a Google search for "Marx for Beginners," the first thing that comes up, before even Amazon.com, is a link to the Wal-Mart page where you can buy it at their low, low exploitative prices. I'm sure Rius would be proud.

I have comic book class with Jeff and Sarah, so going home is always interesting. Last week Jeff introduced me to amazing new concept I'm committed to refer to as much as possible. He explained to us that he is--wait for it--a "sexual ninja." Just pause to take in the awesomeness and all the possibilities of that for a moment. "See," he explained, "people don't know when I'm into them, because I'm stealthy about it and silent. And I make really cool movements." At which point he started to spasm, which is apparently what you should do around people if you don't want them to know that you like them. Also if you want them to move slowly away and never speak to you again. I think I should write one of those, like, "He's Just Not That Into You" books called "Getting in Touch With Your Sexual Ninja" and form some kind of Lifetime-watching army of untapped power. Shortly after the "sexual ninja" demonstration, other-Sarah and Jeff composed an a capella piece in the style of Kel's super-awesome band "Ralph Hextor and the Manfreds," which was basically a musical rendering of Hextor's convocation speech with occasional high-pitched "MAN-FRED!"s thrown in. For non-Hampshirers: Ralph Hextor is our new president. Manfred is his partner, and anyone named Manfred should be worked into conversation as many times as humanly possible.

This week on the way home, Jeff decided he wanted to make new friends. These three fresh-faced young first years got on the bus and sat across from us, looking oddly exuberant because they had gotten a pizza. I think it was very special for them. Jeff, being Jeff, decided to make awkward and creepy conversation with them.

Jeff: Hey guys, nice pizza.
Boy 1: Thanks! If I had more, I would share. But I don't, so I...won't.
*Awkward silence*
Jeff: Soooo...are you guys Hampshire students?
Kids: Yeah.
Jeff: Oh, good. Well, I guess you couldn't really be Mount Holyoke students--except you (gestures to the girl). *Thoughtful pause* And you, I guess (to Boy 1). You're pretty like a girl.
*Awkward silence*
Jeff: Soooo...want to see how I can make a vagina with my hands?

Contrary to popular belief, people will not give you their pizza if you tell them that they are "pretty like a girl" and offer to show them your non-existent genitalia. A lesson hard learned, my friends.

Okay, I think this is as good a place as any to randomly truncate this entry. In Part 2: More ninjas! Spaceships! A robotic abominable snowman named Freddy! YOU CAN'T MISS THIS.