When I get bug bites, I have awful allergic reactions where I scratch the bite once and it swells to the size of a softball!
While being forced to hike “TOP OF THE WORLD” (<— such a misnomer!!) Park, I was attacked by one mosquito and am now suffering the consequences.
I just put so much anti-swelling cream on my leg that it looks like I have a vanilla cupcake growing out of my calf!!!!
A professor once explained that without listening, there would be no talking. Maybe this consequential relationship can’t be applied to every ex-vet who lives on the streets of some temperate, seaside city without sufficient medical rehabilitation or social care and spends his days single, unwashed and rambling to outer space… but for the most part, I think it can apply to blogs.
The inherent faith in having a blog or some form of digital self-expression is that one day (or today, for the optimistic masses) someone will care, could care, would care, should care, must care about who you are and what you have to say.
I personally find this form of social dependence very enervating for the (i.e. my…small) creative mind, since I am often one to grovel and beg and plead and whine for acceptance and attention from others. I admit that I am often obsessed with getting the proverbial “pat on the head” which is DISGUSTING, and I HATE MYSELF FOR IT*!(#!(*!!!&&$!
Anyway, for my mental health and for the survival of the most boring blog in the world, I am going to adamantly believe that no one will ever give two shits (or even one shit!!!) about what I think because if I ever dreamt that they would, I would probably try a lot harder to be interesting or cool, and any attempted progress towards either adjective would make me explode since I am the opposite of both.
My roommate lives in the room in the rightmost corner if you are looking in at our apartment from the perspective of the main doorway, maybe if you were standing just in the frame of it, or maybe if you were looking through the window, or maybe if you were sitting on the tan armchair that sinks low as it tries to take your weight and tries to fit you. If you were standing somewhere else in the apartment, there would be an infinite amount of directions his cornered room could be in.
Anyhow, my roommate’s cellphone company doesn’t allow him service in his own bedroom, so anytime he gets a call and wants to pick up that call, he has to sprint outside. Most mornings, and at some strange hours of the night, I hear a one-man stampede, a door slam and then muttered conversation from under the covers of my huge bed.
I was guilted into getting this bed because the Craigslist lady said “I knew I had to sell this to you instead of the other guy offering to pay the same because I ALSO went to < INSERT NAME OF MY SCHOOL >”. The bed is as tall as a short asian girl (i.e. as tall as me), makes everything in my house look miniature and took 5 of my friends in an old pick up truck to help me pick up.
This is one of those entires where I’m not making shit up. However, since the shit is in Orange, it’s pretty boring.
As someone female, I have the regular urge to support female things, especially female pieces of artistic expression that defend having a positive female body image.
However, there was a recent photo album that appeared on my facebook called “LOVE YOUR BODY” commissioned by a fellow female student, and oddly enough I could not resist the urge to bash and destroy its artistic worth for the following reasons :
1. The concept involves girls that either hold signs or have phrases written on their bodies related to loving their bodies.
2. The signs are hand written with handwriting that looks like it was done by a 3rd grader just learning cursive.
3. Hand written phrases include* : “I’m not a Magazine I’m a Masterpiece.” “My body is incredible but that isn’t why I’m Beautiful.” “CONTROL” “EVERY.BODY. is. BEAUTIFUL.” “MY ‘Boobs’ are the tip of the ICEBERG” and my personal favorite “Real Woman HAVE … Curves”
4. The aesthetics suck (topless girls + muddy background + lighting that casts lots of harsh shadows in more variations of left and right than an octopus’s arms).
MY MAIN BEEF :
Look. Helping girls develop a better sense of “beauty” is a great thing, but doing so without checking (at minimum) the grammatical quality of your statements makes it hard for other girls or other people to support your perception of a beautiful woman whose beauty (or sexuality or tits specifically or whatever) is merely “the tip of the iceberg”. Is the majority of the iceberg uneducated or flagrantly dismissive of the value of intelligent expression?
If you want people to be fascinated by your great mind and personality, shouldn’t you do yourself the favor of representing those two things in the best way possible?
I’m not saying that my grammar is the best either or that we should all develop a strong neurosis for it, but serrriioouuussslyy (<— spelled wrong) …. “real woman have curves”? What do you think “woman have”…because clearly you’re not showing that it’s a passable command of the English language.
*all copied verbatim … arbitrary capitalizations and incorrectly used punctuation included
2:45 AM.
I can’t sit still. It feels as though someone wrapped my brain in foam and installed a merry-go-round in my head and is forcing my brain to ride it incessantly. I keep trying to crack all my knuckles and pick at all my nails because nothing else seems quite as productive. At first I thought these bad habits were all incited by the very nerve wracking but very beautiful communist propaganda film I just watched, but now I have to admit the underwhelming truth that sweet coffee drinks hurt my body!!!!!!! Apparently they give me the pleasant balance of being both enraged and neurotic at the same time.
TEXT FROM FRIEND :
“Read the gov book and bore yourself to sleep”
THE RESPONSE I HAD IN MY MIND FOR HIS TEXT :
Ok. Good idea.
Today I was thirsty after “thrifting” around SoCal for about six hours. I bought a combination of cute, pragmatic and racist things (pictures LATER).
Anyhow, back to my strong sense of thirst. I went to Lee’s Sandwiches and was so overwhelmed by the amazing refill deal ($1.50 to refill a large cup of coffee 80% filled with shaved ice) that I chugged an entire cup in the amount of time it took me to convince myself that I definitely wasn’t too fat to order another sandwich after having eaten … a Pan con bistec, four different types of meat pastries and seven varying types of desserts from Porto’s … just two hours before.
I drank probably 1/3rd of that refill. And I got gas from Costco ($2.239 for unleaded). Afterwards, the coffee started making me really shaky and sickly inside.
That was about 7 hours ago. I currently still feel very nauseous from the caffine. I laid on my stomach while taking more government notes, assuming that it would make me feel better, but instead I have now developed the persistent and unceasing desire to throw up.
Today was the first time my significant other has taken me out on a “date”, and of course an extreme case of stomach pain and dizziness would be the end result.
I’ve never been to a bar in Orange, until last night when my two friends and I went to two of the most obscure, corner-of-the-strip-mall bars ever.
JIMMY BONES SPORTS AND SUDS
After enjoying dinner at the anti-gay (a popular sentiment in the OC, actually) Chick-fil-a, I drove my two friends to get liquor. We saw the bar named Jimmy Bones Sports and Suds and decided : yes.
When we went in, I immediately slipped into the corner-most seat, trying to hide the burning shame that is my underaged body. There were baseball caps stapled over every visible inch of wall. Huge plus. The crowd was mostly 40 and over, and all the women seemed like they had had, at minimum, two babies each.
The regulars immediately asked my friends for their ID’s, and then hugged them after confirming that they were actually over 21. Some people rudely screamed at the bartender that their real California and New York id’s are actually fake.These people were wrong. The bartender said it was “not usually cool” to have people like me in the bar, but he was gonna let it slide that night. Also, one man who started speaking German to my friend said that our “situation” was just like “WWII” because a “German [was] sitting with a Japanese”. I’m Vietnamese, but whatever! No way he could have figured that out in the dim, neon blue lighting anyway.
Overall, the mix of overly friendly moms and mean, single, middle-aged men gives this bar a rating of “the best atmosphere ever”. From my 20 minutes there, I would highly recommend Sports and Suds (which I stupidly called “soap and suds” a few times).
FLING COCKTAILS
After my initial high of getting in Sports and Suds, I decided to accept the challenge of getting into another one!
This brings us to Fling Cocktails. It was like walking into my grandma’s secret square-dancing basement. Dark, moody lighting. The crowd, on average, contained mostly wasted 60 year olds wiggling around. The live entertainment looked like he was Johnny Cash’s more upbeat but slightly less successful older step-brother. I got kicked out after 3 minutes of watching him cover “Sweet Home Alabama” as a few old ladies danced wildly around him.
Though more hostile to people decades younger than them, Fling definitely had more style than Sports and Suds. I also appreciated the use of such a violent imperative in the name. However, I won’t give an opinion until I am legally or illegally allowed to stay inside long enough for someone to finish a drink.
SUMMARY
Jimmy Bone Sports and Suds = good
Fling Cocktails = TBD
SIDE NOTES
1. While writing this, I was distracted by two teenage girls walking past my window waving a sign that I couldn’t read, screaming “COME ON! YOU WANT IT”. I tried to discern what they were saying for about five seconds. I only saw the top of their heads, but they looked like sluts.
2. (three minutes later) The girls were screaming about a car wash. I hear people screaming back “where?”.
3. I will try to make future entires shorter.
I know very well that I am starting this for all the wrong reasons. Unfortunately, I have no hopes of furthering any self-awareness or documenting my days for the sake of preserving what I feel will be worthwhile memories in the future. This is all mostly a poor and bitter reaction to most of my friends leaving me to study abroad while I continue my daily routine in Orange, California. As they stare out their snow trimmed European windows, I struggle to decide whether or not to shut my newly installed window in my newly painted apartment that still has all the ghostly vomit stains from drunken college students of past parties permanently burned into the carpet because my street, for whatever reason, is a magnet for bikers revving their engines as loud as possible to validate their own self worth. When all you’re capable of contributing to society is ear-splitting noise via the vehicle you bought because you’re tired of riding solo in the carpool lane in your oversized truck and getting ticketed…you should definitely make no efforts to rethink any part of your life or your character.
Anyhow, my writing will reek of the frequent hyperbole, poorly used sarcasm and biased descriptions of vaguely true events. Over time, I may make an attempt to represent reality through literary means but that would mean accepting that the reality of living in orange is worth something, and I don’t know if I will ever be ready to do that.
Sorry my personality sucks. Don’t follow unless you enjoy bullshitting and tears.
