This coincides with our previous posts regarding those of a particular demographic, specifically “Bitches" and "Assholes.” I feel it necessary to now delve into a discussion of another undeniable group within society—the large and diverse group of complete and utter MORONS.
It has come to my attention that morons unfortunately do not just amble around aimlessly on the street being stupid and uttering incomprehensible things. Don’t get me wrong, they do this, but it appears that they are also traveling and working among us in a wide variety of capacities, which scares the shit out of me. While I cannot at the moment be completely comprehensive in my analysis and breakdown of the moronic, I promise that I will continue to elaborate in future posts.
The following is a partial listing of some of the morons that you have or probably will encounter at some point in your daily life:
1) The morons that operate NJ Transit:
Example: January 3, 2008, Some moron at NJ Transit decided to wake up this morning and attempt “maintenance” on the path trains, which in reality translated into lighting several path trains on fire. Moron #1 was then joined by a group of several other morons similarly employed who after proceedings all morning finally came to the unanimous and brilliant decision that all path trains into the city should be stopped. Simultaneously, a NJ transit bus driver aka moron (we’ll call him Moron #2) decided to drive his malfunctioning bus briefly through Hoboken and into the Lincoln tunnel and to conveniently break down at the entrance to the tunnel. It’s amazing how few morons it takes to block the majority of NJ pathways into the city. I was lucky enough to finally board a NYC-bound bus in Hoboken being driven by Moron #3, who thankfully appeared to be about 10 years old, mentally retarded, and absolutely incapable of driving. 1 ½ hours later, safe and sound in the beautiful Port of Stupidity, I made my way to the subway, where I was further subjected to the moronic devices of NYC mass transit. But that’s a whole other story right there for another time.
2) Moronic co-workers
As mentioned earlier, the morons among us are amazingly employed and keeping their jobs. I know because I work with many of them. While I must be careful not to go into specifics for this category, I will say this--it appears there are certain morons with whom I work that, a) do not know how to mail something, b) do not know how to answer the phone, c) do not know how to use a typewriter, d) have not yet mastered the concept of normal social communication, and e) appear to suffer from frequent and chronic memory loss. Oh how I wish I could go into further detail.
[As a side, while writing this I am realizing more and more that there is no chance of me avoiding the path towards becoming a complete and utter moron, as I am unfortunately surrounded by too many of them on a daily basis]
4) Moronic clients
Yes, it appears morons often work for the benefit of other morons. Such a scenario can often be found in the legal profession. Where do I even begin? I know I run the risk of offending people here, but who says I haven’t done so already, and guess what? I DON’T CARE. I have been continually amazed by the highly moronic nature of the immigrant clients for whom I continue to provide services for some ungodly reason. If you are going to come to this country to live and work, here are a few suggestions: 1) learn the English language, 2) learn the English language, and 3) learn the English language. Ok perhaps my emphasis on language is being influenced by the fact that I recently received a 20 minute long voicemail from a client who appeared to be under the delusion that I am fluent in Chinese. I will provide more examples of those within this category at a later date, but at the moment, I’m getting too pissed off.
5) Random morons wandering around my office building: I don’t work with them, I don’t know who they are or why they are in my building, but they are there, and they are certainly some of the most frighteningly moronic people you will ever encounter.
Example: My office building, like many others, has more than one floor. In fact, it has about 40 floors. This in turn requires elevators, because people are too fat and lazy to do stairs. In addition, all elevators in the building do not have the same destination. This inevitably leads to some confusion. Correction—this leads to complete and utter chaos. Before you go raving about the injustice of these cruelly ambiguous elevators, please note that there are signs that accompany these elevators, with the optimistic intention of providing clarity to all those planning to ascend. However, this is inherently flawed in that it assumes all elevator-riders are capable of reading. While I guess you could say that for the majority of the day I am usually angry about something, I will admit that this part of my day often provides me with a bit of evil delight. I especially love it when the quintessential moron found within this category boards the private elevator on which I am riding, which is clearly marked by a large sign marked PRIVATE. Moronic elevator rider then proceeds to press his floor of choice, and to his dismay, discovers that the elevator is being uncooperative. His first assumption is not that this is an elevator that only goes to select floors, but that perhaps this is an elevator that requires some persuasion. He therefore proceeds to press his button of choice repeatedly, each hit with slightly more aggression. To his dismay, the stubborn button has still refused to light. He then looks to his fellow elevator riders for support, because perhaps if he gets a mob on his side the elevator will have no choice but to listen. After I have had my fill of enjoyment, I inform him that this elevator will in fact never go to his floor, no matter how hard he tries, and that he will unfortunately have to try another. Perhaps if he had read the giant sign, he might have known. MORON.
I am now dumber after having written this. I am sorry to say that you probably are as well after having read this retarded post. I have also just realized that in my listing of items I accidentally omitted the “#3,” which is surely a sign that I am myself a complete and utter moron.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Thursday, December 27, 2007
THE JESUS BLOG
It's resurrected, bitches! In honor of the season... although I suppose that would actually be Easter. Anyhow, we are back in business-- the business of avoiding our subsequent businesses at all costs.
Speaking of seasonal humor, the true inspiration for this came from an amusing incident last weekend. As Christmas is the season of giving, you are sure to encounter on a per block basis a plethora of various charitable solicitations. Where there's a 5 gallon water jug...
Heading towards Columbus Circle, I encountered one such table and plastic jug. However, I judged it to be unmanned with great relief. There's nothing that makes you feel more shit than to ignore the less fortunate on Christmas. (Are holidays not designed ultimately to make us all feel like wretched human beings-- either through self-reflection, being asked "how's your love life" for teh 23058230th time, or blatant disregard for the welfare of others?)
Thankful to actually NOT have to blank the volunteer who you can only assume to be a person with an actual heart who does not in fact merely step over the homeless, I continued to walk on my merry way...
When I hear verbatim:
Heeyyy, Sexy
....... Care to make a donation to the homeless?
Both phrases in the same breath. Are you Serious? With that sales ploy yes I would like to donate my (imaginary) Christmas bonus!!
I have to admit that I was so taken aback that my outburst of laughter came nearly 20 meters past the stand. It took that long to process. Of course now I can only generalize this incident for my own convenience and assume that all volunteers are complete pervs and thus feel OK about never doing a single "nice" thing ever again.
I'm going to go play with the lump of coal I received in my stocking now. Har har har Actually I'm going to go back to drinking the delightful sambuca/espresso, which I employed my coworker to pick up from the corner liquor store...
HAPPY KWANZAA
Speaking of seasonal humor, the true inspiration for this came from an amusing incident last weekend. As Christmas is the season of giving, you are sure to encounter on a per block basis a plethora of various charitable solicitations. Where there's a 5 gallon water jug...
Heading towards Columbus Circle, I encountered one such table and plastic jug. However, I judged it to be unmanned with great relief. There's nothing that makes you feel more shit than to ignore the less fortunate on Christmas. (Are holidays not designed ultimately to make us all feel like wretched human beings-- either through self-reflection, being asked "how's your love life" for teh 23058230th time, or blatant disregard for the welfare of others?)
Thankful to actually NOT have to blank the volunteer who you can only assume to be a person with an actual heart who does not in fact merely step over the homeless, I continued to walk on my merry way...
When I hear verbatim:
Heeyyy, Sexy
....... Care to make a donation to the homeless?
Both phrases in the same breath. Are you Serious? With that sales ploy yes I would like to donate my (imaginary) Christmas bonus!!
I have to admit that I was so taken aback that my outburst of laughter came nearly 20 meters past the stand. It took that long to process. Of course now I can only generalize this incident for my own convenience and assume that all volunteers are complete pervs and thus feel OK about never doing a single "nice" thing ever again.
I'm going to go play with the lump of coal I received in my stocking now. Har har har Actually I'm going to go back to drinking the delightful sambuca/espresso, which I employed my coworker to pick up from the corner liquor store...
HAPPY KWANZAA
Monday, May 7, 2007
Narrowly Escaping Death: Terror in the Lab
I know that writing about work is taboo, but since I don't do any work at work anymore, it doesn't count.
Instead I hide at my little dark cubby-hole-corner computer (where I was banished after the one at my desk died) and write on Facebook walls. It's really not that lonely; I am surrounded by hazardous waste containers whose fumes have been making me hallucinate lots of imaginary friends.
Because of the radioactive waste all over the place in my special home corner, it's the only place in the lab where you're not allowed to eat or drink. So of course I blatantly ignore this state law. Typically I have a coffee mug, a water bottle, and some food next to the computer. I even occasionally follow the 5-second-rule. What the hey -- I don't particularly care for children, so it doesn't matter if mine end up being born with 3 heads.
Friday morning, as I was vacantly staring at someone's Facebook profile who undoubtedly I have not spoken to in years, or maybe even ever, whom should arrive at the Bayliss lab but the State of Virginia Safetly Inspectors. They immediately began harassing one of my coworkers about our unlabeled waste containers, threatening $20,000 fines, so naturally she did what everyone in my lab does whenever there is any kind of problem, annoyance, or obnoxious complaining person nearby: direct them to me.
That's right, she led the state inspectors to me in my little corner, where I was at that moment harboring a highly illegal water bottle (think: $50,000 fine for my lab for this). With the computer in front of me blocking their view of the water, they proceeded to stare me down and lecture me on the dangers of unlabeled waste containers. At this point I was pretty much about to pee my pants, thinking that any second they would catch sight of the bottle.
With no other path out of my corner except the one blocked by the inspectors, and no where to hide my water bottle, I thought I was fucked. But then the inspector decided to turn his back for a split second to inspect some other Illegal Hazard on the other side of the room. I saw my opening, grabbed my water bottle and sprinted for the yellow tape that marked the end of the non-eating area.
I crossed the tape, thought I was home free...and the little bastard turned around and caught me. "EXCUSE me, but did I just see you bring that water from your desk?" He sounded like the brown-noser kid in 2nd grade who is pumped to tell the teacher that he caught the retarded boy next to him cheating on the times tables quiz.
(me, breaking into a sweat) "No, of course not, I know that that area is a non-eating and drinking area. I would never break that rule and had just picked up this bottle from the counter right here."
He glared at me, clearly thinking I was full of shit and frustrated that he had no proof. And then he left to harass some other poor undeserving underpaid lab technician.
Sarah: 1, State of Virginia: 0
Instead I hide at my little dark cubby-hole-corner computer (where I was banished after the one at my desk died) and write on Facebook walls. It's really not that lonely; I am surrounded by hazardous waste containers whose fumes have been making me hallucinate lots of imaginary friends.
Because of the radioactive waste all over the place in my special home corner, it's the only place in the lab where you're not allowed to eat or drink. So of course I blatantly ignore this state law. Typically I have a coffee mug, a water bottle, and some food next to the computer. I even occasionally follow the 5-second-rule. What the hey -- I don't particularly care for children, so it doesn't matter if mine end up being born with 3 heads.
Friday morning, as I was vacantly staring at someone's Facebook profile who undoubtedly I have not spoken to in years, or maybe even ever, whom should arrive at the Bayliss lab but the State of Virginia Safetly Inspectors. They immediately began harassing one of my coworkers about our unlabeled waste containers, threatening $20,000 fines, so naturally she did what everyone in my lab does whenever there is any kind of problem, annoyance, or obnoxious complaining person nearby: direct them to me.
That's right, she led the state inspectors to me in my little corner, where I was at that moment harboring a highly illegal water bottle (think: $50,000 fine for my lab for this). With the computer in front of me blocking their view of the water, they proceeded to stare me down and lecture me on the dangers of unlabeled waste containers. At this point I was pretty much about to pee my pants, thinking that any second they would catch sight of the bottle.
With no other path out of my corner except the one blocked by the inspectors, and no where to hide my water bottle, I thought I was fucked. But then the inspector decided to turn his back for a split second to inspect some other Illegal Hazard on the other side of the room. I saw my opening, grabbed my water bottle and sprinted for the yellow tape that marked the end of the non-eating area.
I crossed the tape, thought I was home free...and the little bastard turned around and caught me. "EXCUSE me, but did I just see you bring that water from your desk?" He sounded like the brown-noser kid in 2nd grade who is pumped to tell the teacher that he caught the retarded boy next to him cheating on the times tables quiz.
(me, breaking into a sweat) "No, of course not, I know that that area is a non-eating and drinking area. I would never break that rule and had just picked up this bottle from the counter right here."
He glared at me, clearly thinking I was full of shit and frustrated that he had no proof. And then he left to harass some other poor undeserving underpaid lab technician.
Sarah: 1, State of Virginia: 0
Wow, girls are slutty
I'll say this is story from a coworker of mine so as to escape explaining how my office rents space from a larger accounting firm as do a few others so while it seems we work together, in actuality we do not. (Oh wait, i just explained it anyway)
So, over the course of lunch today (lovely time spent sitting overlooking the waterfront at battery park) this coworker (aka non-coworking Banker) is going on about a former client of his in France who would like to visit America.
Fine, not a problem. His thoughts are, "wouldnt it be nice to meet up while she was here... grab a drink, etc."
her thoughts are apparently, "I know someone vaguely in America, maybe I can use them for their apartment." I mean that's a bit cheeky but I'd have to admit I'd hit up friends of friends of friends just to avoid paying for even a hostel
his thoughts are, "Ok, you can stay with me... If you FUCK me" actually these are more than his thoughts, these are his words to her-- albeit jokingly...
her response? ....... "Why not" !!! (is it really that easy?)
I guess a kicker here would be that as this sounds like one of those crap stories in Maxim, "Maxim" is in fact the guy's name. Go figure.
So, over the course of lunch today (lovely time spent sitting overlooking the waterfront at battery park) this coworker (aka non-coworking Banker) is going on about a former client of his in France who would like to visit America.
Fine, not a problem. His thoughts are, "wouldnt it be nice to meet up while she was here... grab a drink, etc."
her thoughts are apparently, "I know someone vaguely in America, maybe I can use them for their apartment." I mean that's a bit cheeky but I'd have to admit I'd hit up friends of friends of friends just to avoid paying for even a hostel
his thoughts are, "Ok, you can stay with me... If you FUCK me" actually these are more than his thoughts, these are his words to her-- albeit jokingly...
her response? ....... "Why not" !!! (is it really that easy?)
I guess a kicker here would be that as this sounds like one of those crap stories in Maxim, "Maxim" is in fact the guy's name. Go figure.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
"Why"
Why did I drink 7 drinks last night?
Why did I eat a burrito when I got home?
Why have I spent the entire day looking up Bungalow 8 and Tenjune on the internet?
Why am I moving to Kenya?
Why am I writing this blog when I have piles of work right next to me?
Why did I wake up dry heaving this morning?
Why did I tell my alarm clock to S my D?
Why was I rambling incoherently about cat urine last night?
Why am I going on full-fledge benders today, tomorrow, and sunday?
Why?
Why did I eat a burrito when I got home?
Why have I spent the entire day looking up Bungalow 8 and Tenjune on the internet?
Why am I moving to Kenya?
Why am I writing this blog when I have piles of work right next to me?
Why did I wake up dry heaving this morning?
Why did I tell my alarm clock to S my D?
Why was I rambling incoherently about cat urine last night?
Why am I going on full-fledge benders today, tomorrow, and sunday?
Why?
A Public Service Announcement
Dear Jamie,
Please stop being a bitch.
Love,
Everyone you encounter daily
Please stop being a bitch.
Love,
Everyone you encounter daily
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
i'm moving to nairobi
hey, just thought that i would inform all of my loyal readers that i will be moving to africa in 2 months...i think. the goal is to work for a nonprofit and try to return to the US in 6 months still alive. this is going to be quite a challenge, i know, but after 10 months of listening to bb and sm, i feel i am ready to take on this special challenge. i had a dream last night that i was living in nairobi and working at a human rights nonprofit, and everything was fine--i had friends, food, etc--but then one day i was mugged by these guys with machetes. so i guess im a little scared, but im going. so help me god. i
am
GOINGGGGG
am
GOINGGGGG
Pick up the pace!
Ok, so as you are already aware, I spend entirely too much time surfing yahoo and google for useless news stories during the workday. Anyway, read this first:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20070502/wl_uk_afp/britainsingapore_070502101857
Ok, so most would react to this by thinking, gee, some of us need to slow down in life, take a breather, what's the big hurry? WRONG.
Maybe it's the competitive side of me talking, but....COME ON NEW YORKERS, PICK UP THE FRIGGIN PACE. What I want to know is how a place like Madrid (wonderful city don't get me wrong, I spent 6 months there) whose productivity rate can be likened to that of a stoned ADDer missing his meds, can blow us all out of the water. And perhaps my feelings in this regard are also slightly self-interested because I'm sick of walking behind people all day that feel it's acceptable to practically get down on all fours and crawl to work.
Ok, so maybe I exaggerate, and it's pretty much safe to say that my perception is skewed as I don't exactly "walk" to work - I more compete in the Olympic one-mile dash to work. This might explain why subsequent to completion of my morning "walk" through the city, I:
a) Want to keel over and die
b) Have broken a sweat and need to re-apply travel-size deodorant included in bag for this very reason (pleasant, yes I know)
c) Have the nagging urge to check my watch for the final time clocked
I know I know. Why would I want to run like a maniac to work, a place to which I dread going every day? But this is not the point. I don't care where I'm going every morning, or where you're going, but no matter what, I know that I have to beat you there.
You others might not be aware that by embarking on a journey through the city streets each morning that you are also unknowlingly signing up for a highly competitive road race against the rest of us, but it's the truth whether you like it or not. If you choose to forfeit entry and not to participate, then you run the risk of being characterized by others that encounter you as one of those foreign creatures that tends to walk at a pace 1/10th the average rate, has the frequent urge to pull out a camera and photograph anything from McDonald's signs in Time Square to the "air" in general, tends to sport a fanny pack, and is likely to elect Olive Garden or TGIFridays as an acceptable place to eat in a city of about 915028190 restaurants....otherwise known as the dreaded New York City "tourist".
With such considerations in mind, if you are a commuter or New Yorker, you may just want to strap on those running shoes and take part in that morning race afterall. And plus, myself and my few other crazy friends are getting sick of trying to hold up New York's speedwalking average rate on our own.
So come on New Yorkers and commuters, pick up the freaking pace already, before our average starts dipping to dangerously low Midwestern levels.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20070502/wl_uk_afp/britainsingapore_070502101857
Ok, so most would react to this by thinking, gee, some of us need to slow down in life, take a breather, what's the big hurry? WRONG.
Maybe it's the competitive side of me talking, but....COME ON NEW YORKERS, PICK UP THE FRIGGIN PACE. What I want to know is how a place like Madrid (wonderful city don't get me wrong, I spent 6 months there) whose productivity rate can be likened to that of a stoned ADDer missing his meds, can blow us all out of the water. And perhaps my feelings in this regard are also slightly self-interested because I'm sick of walking behind people all day that feel it's acceptable to practically get down on all fours and crawl to work.
Ok, so maybe I exaggerate, and it's pretty much safe to say that my perception is skewed as I don't exactly "walk" to work - I more compete in the Olympic one-mile dash to work. This might explain why subsequent to completion of my morning "walk" through the city, I:
a) Want to keel over and die
b) Have broken a sweat and need to re-apply travel-size deodorant included in bag for this very reason (pleasant, yes I know)
c) Have the nagging urge to check my watch for the final time clocked
I know I know. Why would I want to run like a maniac to work, a place to which I dread going every day? But this is not the point. I don't care where I'm going every morning, or where you're going, but no matter what, I know that I have to beat you there.
You others might not be aware that by embarking on a journey through the city streets each morning that you are also unknowlingly signing up for a highly competitive road race against the rest of us, but it's the truth whether you like it or not. If you choose to forfeit entry and not to participate, then you run the risk of being characterized by others that encounter you as one of those foreign creatures that tends to walk at a pace 1/10th the average rate, has the frequent urge to pull out a camera and photograph anything from McDonald's signs in Time Square to the "air" in general, tends to sport a fanny pack, and is likely to elect Olive Garden or TGIFridays as an acceptable place to eat in a city of about 915028190 restaurants....otherwise known as the dreaded New York City "tourist".
With such considerations in mind, if you are a commuter or New Yorker, you may just want to strap on those running shoes and take part in that morning race afterall. And plus, myself and my few other crazy friends are getting sick of trying to hold up New York's speedwalking average rate on our own.
So come on New Yorkers and commuters, pick up the freaking pace already, before our average starts dipping to dangerously low Midwestern levels.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
I'm an incredibly positive and non-sarcastic person
Ok this is going to be really hard, but I'm going to try to write something positive that doesn't make people want to jump off of the Empire State Building after reading.
Hmmm....and I'm blanking, so I'm just going to make fun of people instead.
So I know I'm breaking the cardinal rule that forbids talking about work on the Blog, but I feel as though it would be a crime if I didn't share with you all some details about a few of the characters I've encountered at work...
1) BB
BB, otherwise known as "British Bitch," sports a boy hairdo and utters highly audible atrocious things daily in a thick British accent. She has been spotted verbally abusing her child over the phone, making her subordinates cry and hide under desks, and attacking co-workers on their choices of lunch foods in the company cafeteria.
2) SM
SM, otherwise known as "small midget" (yes I'm aware there is a redundancy there but both words are needed for emphasis), has an obviously short stature but nonetheless makes her presence known by yelling outrageous things to any that might cross her path. She is often accompanied by BB and is feared by many.
I've also encountered the following:
1) Attorney who puts on fake southern accent when speaking with her one imaginary client on the phone
2) Secretary who sprints 100 meter dashes across office floor to greet clients at the door
3) Male administrative assistant known to tell numerous pathological lies, but fear not, he does not fit into the PL asshole category.
I'm going to stop now. If you would like further details, I can provide them via private email. Or you can just wait to see them in the reality show that premieres, which will blow "The Office" out of the water.
Hmmm....and I'm blanking, so I'm just going to make fun of people instead.
So I know I'm breaking the cardinal rule that forbids talking about work on the Blog, but I feel as though it would be a crime if I didn't share with you all some details about a few of the characters I've encountered at work...
1) BB
BB, otherwise known as "British Bitch," sports a boy hairdo and utters highly audible atrocious things daily in a thick British accent. She has been spotted verbally abusing her child over the phone, making her subordinates cry and hide under desks, and attacking co-workers on their choices of lunch foods in the company cafeteria.
2) SM
SM, otherwise known as "small midget" (yes I'm aware there is a redundancy there but both words are needed for emphasis), has an obviously short stature but nonetheless makes her presence known by yelling outrageous things to any that might cross her path. She is often accompanied by BB and is feared by many.
I've also encountered the following:
1) Attorney who puts on fake southern accent when speaking with her one imaginary client on the phone
2) Secretary who sprints 100 meter dashes across office floor to greet clients at the door
3) Male administrative assistant known to tell numerous pathological lies, but fear not, he does not fit into the PL asshole category.
I'm going to stop now. If you would like further details, I can provide them via private email. Or you can just wait to see them in the reality show that premieres, which will blow "The Office" out of the water.
blatant avoidance tactic
I'm on my third pen today and it's not even lunch.
Just like socks in the drier... except not. I am solely responsible for each tragic loss to the Bic generation. There is no sock monster or fourth dimension into which they paradoxically slip-- the pens anyway. I am fairly sure that sock monsters DO exist.
All this means is that I AM dumb. And needlessly frantic. I think I'd rather not write another thing all day than give myself the satisfaction of breaking in a new pen. (weird sense of masochism)
now, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY SUNGLASSES
Just like socks in the drier... except not. I am solely responsible for each tragic loss to the Bic generation. There is no sock monster or fourth dimension into which they paradoxically slip-- the pens anyway. I am fairly sure that sock monsters DO exist.
All this means is that I AM dumb. And needlessly frantic. I think I'd rather not write another thing all day than give myself the satisfaction of breaking in a new pen. (weird sense of masochism)
now, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY SUNGLASSES
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Guess my mood; Win a prize for the lady...
Apparently, I am bipolar. Or something of the psychologically unstable persuasion.
I like to think of myself as a relatively laid back, even-keeled sort of gal, however i seem to be failing miserably at having others think this. In the past hour I've been told first that today I am in a good mood only minutes later to be asked if everything was ok because I sounded 'down' over the phone.
Ok, first of all... why people feel it is necessary to comment to me on my own mood is a bit confusing and why they keep a running tab of said mood is just bewildering??? Really? Why? What do you care? and how do you suppose to know this?? How much can you surmise from "Hello". I don't mean to say it differently-- can you really sense tears or anger or ecstasy in two syllables??
Really???
This is not only today, but rather a common occurence. In fact, yesterday I was compared to Droopy (yeah the cartoon bassett hound who says everything is fine but sounds miserable). Or last week when my boss was out and I communicated online with him-- "You seem in a good mood, maybe I should not come back to the office" (to which I nearly screamed and cried! That's not even FUNNY, Loic). I did not know a voice, or instant messaging, could convey such emotion. The enormous bags under my eyes I think would be slightly more telling... YES I have been working 12 hour days. I AM miserable but how do you know?? ARE YOU PSYCHIC. It just makes me suspicious.
I think the only answer is voice hamogination skills. I dont like these people "knowing" I am going to act happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy or maybe angry when I am happy (there are a lot of different options). Anything to throw them off the scent.......
I like to think of myself as a relatively laid back, even-keeled sort of gal, however i seem to be failing miserably at having others think this. In the past hour I've been told first that today I am in a good mood only minutes later to be asked if everything was ok because I sounded 'down' over the phone.
Ok, first of all... why people feel it is necessary to comment to me on my own mood is a bit confusing and why they keep a running tab of said mood is just bewildering??? Really? Why? What do you care? and how do you suppose to know this?? How much can you surmise from "Hello". I don't mean to say it differently-- can you really sense tears or anger or ecstasy in two syllables??
Really???
This is not only today, but rather a common occurence. In fact, yesterday I was compared to Droopy (yeah the cartoon bassett hound who says everything is fine but sounds miserable). Or last week when my boss was out and I communicated online with him-- "You seem in a good mood, maybe I should not come back to the office" (to which I nearly screamed and cried! That's not even FUNNY, Loic). I did not know a voice, or instant messaging, could convey such emotion. The enormous bags under my eyes I think would be slightly more telling... YES I have been working 12 hour days. I AM miserable but how do you know?? ARE YOU PSYCHIC. It just makes me suspicious.
I think the only answer is voice hamogination skills. I dont like these people "knowing" I am going to act happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy or maybe angry when I am happy (there are a lot of different options). Anything to throw them off the scent.......
Text Messaging
Ok, so yes I've been surfing the web all morning instead of doing work and I came across this. Please read it:
http://www.cnn.com/2007/TECH/ptech/04/22/top.texter.ap/index.html
Ok now that you're back, I hope you are all as appalled as I am. Oh wait I'm sorry, let me pat you on the back little 13 year old girl for spending your life texting and running up a nice little bill for mommy and daddy. Thank goodness we have the text messaging function at our disposal in life so you were able to send out 90358901 text messages along the lines of "BFF 4-ever!" to your friends sitting next to you in class, or else they wouldn't have received the message.
Ok fine, I'll admit it, I've had like 3 hour long conversations with close friends via text message, and it hasn't crossed my mind even once during that time to maybe pick up the phone and call. Perhaps I enjoy the anticipation of hearing that little "beep beep." Or perhaps I am just a social outcast who enjoys as little social interaction as possible (hence my addiction to text messaging's close cousins, AIM and gmail). Either way, I know I can't bash it completely because I enjoy that it grants me the ability to do the following (gosh I sure do make a lot of lists in life):
1) Avoid people
2) Annoy people
3) Talk about people right in front of them
4) Make obscene comments unsuitable for verbal sharing
Since I cannot let go of any of these benefits, I will have to endorse text messaging as a necessity in life, despite the fact that it allows 13 year olds to win $25000 all of which they will blow at the Limited Too and the fact that we may all develop chronic thumb problems in a few years.
http://www.cnn.com/2007/TECH/ptech/04/22/top.texter.ap/index.html
Ok now that you're back, I hope you are all as appalled as I am. Oh wait I'm sorry, let me pat you on the back little 13 year old girl for spending your life texting and running up a nice little bill for mommy and daddy. Thank goodness we have the text messaging function at our disposal in life so you were able to send out 90358901 text messages along the lines of "BFF 4-ever!" to your friends sitting next to you in class, or else they wouldn't have received the message.
Ok fine, I'll admit it, I've had like 3 hour long conversations with close friends via text message, and it hasn't crossed my mind even once during that time to maybe pick up the phone and call. Perhaps I enjoy the anticipation of hearing that little "beep beep." Or perhaps I am just a social outcast who enjoys as little social interaction as possible (hence my addiction to text messaging's close cousins, AIM and gmail). Either way, I know I can't bash it completely because I enjoy that it grants me the ability to do the following (gosh I sure do make a lot of lists in life):
1) Avoid people
2) Annoy people
3) Talk about people right in front of them
4) Make obscene comments unsuitable for verbal sharing
Since I cannot let go of any of these benefits, I will have to endorse text messaging as a necessity in life, despite the fact that it allows 13 year olds to win $25000 all of which they will blow at the Limited Too and the fact that we may all develop chronic thumb problems in a few years.
It's the little things in life, really
One of the fundamental differences between Charlottesville and NYC, I think, is that the Starbucks is a 5-minute walk away instead of having 3 or 4 (or 12) within eyesight. Being the lazy person that I am, I opt to buy my morning coffee at the Higher Grounds conveniently located inside my building instead of trekking to Starbucks.
As I was waiting for my latte this morning I absentmindedly stared at their list of flavored drinks, each with its own special name. These were four of the options:
Nuthugger
Black Love
Mother's Milk
Mounds (my personal favorite)
Did they do this intentionally, or do I have serious mind-in-gutter issues?
As I was waiting for my latte this morning I absentmindedly stared at their list of flavored drinks, each with its own special name. These were four of the options:
Nuthugger
Black Love
Mother's Milk
Mounds (my personal favorite)
Did they do this intentionally, or do I have serious mind-in-gutter issues?
Monday, April 23, 2007
i need pills
picture this, if you will:
a beautiful, sunny day in new york city. employed manhattanites are sitting on the citigroup steps with their co-workers and consuming a delightful assortment of foods--sandwiches, soup, shredded lamb--oh my! a bubbling fountain glistens in the background. work is temporarily forgotten as the occupants of the aforemented steps take dainty bites of their respective lunches and wave at friends passing by. the men are utilizing their precious lunch hour to discuss friendly, masculine, non-work related topics like the yankees, armani suits, and the crazy bitches who were shouting V-A-G through the streets of the meatpacking district on friday night. the ladies are sitting crosslegged on the same steps, their legs dangling childishly, commenting on the outfits and general appearances of other women. all of these men and women are wearing black business suits, though many a collar is loosened and many a sleeve rolled up.
in the background, blurred behind a sea of black and white suits from saks, two young women are sprinting through the citigroup fountain barefoot. they are wearing bright, colorful skirts, one of which could be considered "a bit too short" for the work environment. one by one, each citigroup head turns to cast a look of disgust at these young women, all of them thinking one of three things:
1. were those the v-a-g girls from friday?
2. they are going to contract some form of foot fungus, hepatitis, or step on a saringe that was cast into the fountain by a disgruntled homeless person.
3. they have a mentally degenerative disease. perhaps not dementia or down syndrome, but something along the lines of a forest gump or gilbert grape-like malfunction.
i no longer experience the emotion of embarrassment. it is liberating.
a beautiful, sunny day in new york city. employed manhattanites are sitting on the citigroup steps with their co-workers and consuming a delightful assortment of foods--sandwiches, soup, shredded lamb--oh my! a bubbling fountain glistens in the background. work is temporarily forgotten as the occupants of the aforemented steps take dainty bites of their respective lunches and wave at friends passing by. the men are utilizing their precious lunch hour to discuss friendly, masculine, non-work related topics like the yankees, armani suits, and the crazy bitches who were shouting V-A-G through the streets of the meatpacking district on friday night. the ladies are sitting crosslegged on the same steps, their legs dangling childishly, commenting on the outfits and general appearances of other women. all of these men and women are wearing black business suits, though many a collar is loosened and many a sleeve rolled up.
in the background, blurred behind a sea of black and white suits from saks, two young women are sprinting through the citigroup fountain barefoot. they are wearing bright, colorful skirts, one of which could be considered "a bit too short" for the work environment. one by one, each citigroup head turns to cast a look of disgust at these young women, all of them thinking one of three things:
1. were those the v-a-g girls from friday?
2. they are going to contract some form of foot fungus, hepatitis, or step on a saringe that was cast into the fountain by a disgruntled homeless person.
3. they have a mentally degenerative disease. perhaps not dementia or down syndrome, but something along the lines of a forest gump or gilbert grape-like malfunction.
i no longer experience the emotion of embarrassment. it is liberating.
Just another typical night out in NYC...
Ok, I'd like to take this opportunity to express the fact that I am having an increasing amount of difficulty going out in NYC without doing the following:
1) Providing the general public with verbalities and scenes that may be considered somewhat non-conformist and just downright inappropriate;
2) Consuming an amount of alcohol at least 10 times the legal or simply acceptable limit for someone of my age/size;
3) Experiencing various losses in physical ability and brain-to-muscle and brain-to-nerve functioning, such as my ability to stand, walk, pronounce words and use at least some level of discretion when choosing to speak;
4) Encountering an extremely wide variety of members of the opposite sex that while different from one another all seem to strangely converge in their joint custody of the following traits: completely lacking in any creative initiative when engaging in pick-up attempts, and possessing a sad excuse for a sense of humor, personality and acceptable appearance, otherwise known as New York City's quite diverse demographic of complete and utter CREEPS.
With that preface in mind, shall I do a recap of my Friday night in the city?
Friday night, April 20, 2007, at approximately 11:30 pm, I entered the "Dirty Disco" in the meat-packing district. Now one would think that with a name like "Dirty Disco," the night would be relatively tame. NOT. (again, bringing that usage of "Not" back whether you like it or not).
Anyway, so night at Dirty Disco commences at 11:30 pm, and so far, it's a relatively quiet venue. I have yet to witness any puking, grinding, molestation, table dancing, pick-up attempts, public urination, or dancing by white males easily mistakable for uncontrollable seizure/muscle spasms. I'm thinking to myself, hey this might just be the low-key night in NYC I knew I could experience at least once. Wrong.
1) Myself and others present at the club encounter an asshole that must most definitely be added to our growing list of asshole genotypes (as a follow-up to Maggie's highly informative asshole blog). This asshole may be termed the "pathological liar asshole." He has been known to craft imaginary friendships and relationships with celebrities in his head which he then brings to fruition through pathetic pick-up attempt conversation with girls he meets out. If you know of some assholes yourselves, and need help determining if any might fit into this category, let me give you an example:
(Let's call him PL asshole by the way). Ok, so PL asshole approaches you in a club and says a little something like this:
"Hey, how are you, having a good time tonight? (Insert more stupid filler dialogue). Yesterday, Tom Cruise and I had coffee and are good friends."
Translation = "Yesterday I had coffee at Starbuck's and there was a TV screen there that was showing a recap of the Tom Cruise couch-jumping Oprah episode."
Your appropriate response = Hey, cool, but Tom Cruise is a tool which makes you one by even your imagined association.
Ok so we encounter PL asshole in the Dirty Disco. He sees that perhaps we are girls with some morsel of intelligence whose mental curiosity has perhaps encouraged us to pick up a few books and read. He proceeds to tell us that he is good longtime friend of esteemed author David Sedaris; HOWEVER, he was apparently out to lunch and utterly unaware that David Sedaris is in fact gay and has any affiliation with Paris. What a complete idiot and absolutely qualifying PL asshole.
Anyway, so subsequent to encountering PL asshole, we proceed to dance or should I say drink and "stumble purposefully" (what I like to call my dancing) the night away, encountering further specimens of the NYC race of male creeps. These included the "Oh where are you from I'm pretending I care so much right now" types, the "Here do you want another drink aka 1950890 so I can molest you" types, the "let's bust out of this joint and go to another club aka my bed" types, etc....the list is endless. During this time, we also decide we are important enough to invent our own drinks and name them after ourselves. We all order several "Maggie McQuades" from the bartender, in response to which the bartender wears a look of confusion and apparent fatigue over having to cope nightly with the stupid drunken ideas of stupid drunken customers. But I whisper "vanilla vodka/gingerale" to her and she proceeds to fill our orders. And she thanks me as the next time she is completely prepared as we jump to the counter and order about 50 more "MM's."
Eventually tired of the scene and the creep bombardment, we decide to leave the Dirty Disco world for the night and make an attempt at "The Plumm" next door. All I can say is thank goodness for a place like "The Plumm" that creates such social standards outside its doors that allow a man wearing a full fur coat and sunglasses when it's friggin 70 degrees out and nighttime to dictate who is "in" and who is "out." We stand there for a while, desperately attempting to win over this fur-bearer's affection so that we may receive his "cool" stamp of approval and enter this Plumm world of complete and utter cool. We finally get in because some other random guy at the door notes we are looking decidedly unhappy and decides to take pity on us. We enter and are told to pay 25 dollars. Screw that shit, we're leaving.
Time to hail a cab. This should be made easier by screaming obscenities and waving the middle finger to all passer-by in the street. Thank God alcohol was able to fill us in on these key aspects of hailing a cab. A cabbie in a momentary lapse of judgment decides to accept us as passengers. Now I don't know what it is about alcohol that allows you and your pals to get on a completely obscene subject and dwell on it for the rest of the night completely inappropriately. For us this involved specific human body parts that are generally regarded as taboo subjects for loud public dialogue. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say we informed the cabbie, every person on the NYC street within a 10 mile radius, the doorman at Maggie's apartment, all those residing in Maggie's building, innocent elevator by-standers, and friends accessible by cell phone and facebook of our feelings regarding above-discussed body parts.
Aside from inappropriate public discussion, the ridiculousness factor of our night was increased tenfold by, believe it or not, the presence of an Oreck vacuum. Preface to this: Maggie lives in an apartment that is extremely nice and relatively clean; however, she has been perpetually plagued as of late by the deteriorating appearance of her apartment rug, an essential aspect of her apartment decor. Day and night she has searched for remedies to the situation, in response to which a mysterious package labeled "Oreck" arrived in the mail.
Upon entrance into Maggie's apt. building that night, the Oreck vacuum package was spotted immediately, sitting next to the guilty doorman. There was nothing he could do to stop the group of overexcited and dangerously intoxicated girls completely focused on acquisition of said vacuum. The vacuum was obtained without signature, and took a rather fun adventure up to the 30th floor, which involved crawling on the lobby floor in order to push the vacuum, throwing of vacuum into the elevator, narrowly missing others present in the elevator who had no idea that by entering the elevator that night they were in fact at risk of experiencing a "death by Oreck." Upon final arrival at Maggie's apartment, the Oreck was laid to rest in a corner and the tired but accomplished girls all collapsed in a heap around it.
I'm too tired to write anymore, as I'm still recovering. But just wanted to give you a taste of just another night out in the city. I hope you all can come join in the normalcy sometime.
1) Providing the general public with verbalities and scenes that may be considered somewhat non-conformist and just downright inappropriate;
2) Consuming an amount of alcohol at least 10 times the legal or simply acceptable limit for someone of my age/size;
3) Experiencing various losses in physical ability and brain-to-muscle and brain-to-nerve functioning, such as my ability to stand, walk, pronounce words and use at least some level of discretion when choosing to speak;
4) Encountering an extremely wide variety of members of the opposite sex that while different from one another all seem to strangely converge in their joint custody of the following traits: completely lacking in any creative initiative when engaging in pick-up attempts, and possessing a sad excuse for a sense of humor, personality and acceptable appearance, otherwise known as New York City's quite diverse demographic of complete and utter CREEPS.
With that preface in mind, shall I do a recap of my Friday night in the city?
Friday night, April 20, 2007, at approximately 11:30 pm, I entered the "Dirty Disco" in the meat-packing district. Now one would think that with a name like "Dirty Disco," the night would be relatively tame. NOT. (again, bringing that usage of "Not" back whether you like it or not).
Anyway, so night at Dirty Disco commences at 11:30 pm, and so far, it's a relatively quiet venue. I have yet to witness any puking, grinding, molestation, table dancing, pick-up attempts, public urination, or dancing by white males easily mistakable for uncontrollable seizure/muscle spasms. I'm thinking to myself, hey this might just be the low-key night in NYC I knew I could experience at least once. Wrong.
1) Myself and others present at the club encounter an asshole that must most definitely be added to our growing list of asshole genotypes (as a follow-up to Maggie's highly informative asshole blog). This asshole may be termed the "pathological liar asshole." He has been known to craft imaginary friendships and relationships with celebrities in his head which he then brings to fruition through pathetic pick-up attempt conversation with girls he meets out. If you know of some assholes yourselves, and need help determining if any might fit into this category, let me give you an example:
(Let's call him PL asshole by the way). Ok, so PL asshole approaches you in a club and says a little something like this:
"Hey, how are you, having a good time tonight? (Insert more stupid filler dialogue). Yesterday, Tom Cruise and I had coffee and are good friends."
Translation = "Yesterday I had coffee at Starbuck's and there was a TV screen there that was showing a recap of the Tom Cruise couch-jumping Oprah episode."
Your appropriate response = Hey, cool, but Tom Cruise is a tool which makes you one by even your imagined association.
Ok so we encounter PL asshole in the Dirty Disco. He sees that perhaps we are girls with some morsel of intelligence whose mental curiosity has perhaps encouraged us to pick up a few books and read. He proceeds to tell us that he is good longtime friend of esteemed author David Sedaris; HOWEVER, he was apparently out to lunch and utterly unaware that David Sedaris is in fact gay and has any affiliation with Paris. What a complete idiot and absolutely qualifying PL asshole.
Anyway, so subsequent to encountering PL asshole, we proceed to dance or should I say drink and "stumble purposefully" (what I like to call my dancing) the night away, encountering further specimens of the NYC race of male creeps. These included the "Oh where are you from I'm pretending I care so much right now" types, the "Here do you want another drink aka 1950890 so I can molest you" types, the "let's bust out of this joint and go to another club aka my bed" types, etc....the list is endless. During this time, we also decide we are important enough to invent our own drinks and name them after ourselves. We all order several "Maggie McQuades" from the bartender, in response to which the bartender wears a look of confusion and apparent fatigue over having to cope nightly with the stupid drunken ideas of stupid drunken customers. But I whisper "vanilla vodka/gingerale" to her and she proceeds to fill our orders. And she thanks me as the next time she is completely prepared as we jump to the counter and order about 50 more "MM's."
Eventually tired of the scene and the creep bombardment, we decide to leave the Dirty Disco world for the night and make an attempt at "The Plumm" next door. All I can say is thank goodness for a place like "The Plumm" that creates such social standards outside its doors that allow a man wearing a full fur coat and sunglasses when it's friggin 70 degrees out and nighttime to dictate who is "in" and who is "out." We stand there for a while, desperately attempting to win over this fur-bearer's affection so that we may receive his "cool" stamp of approval and enter this Plumm world of complete and utter cool. We finally get in because some other random guy at the door notes we are looking decidedly unhappy and decides to take pity on us. We enter and are told to pay 25 dollars. Screw that shit, we're leaving.
Time to hail a cab. This should be made easier by screaming obscenities and waving the middle finger to all passer-by in the street. Thank God alcohol was able to fill us in on these key aspects of hailing a cab. A cabbie in a momentary lapse of judgment decides to accept us as passengers. Now I don't know what it is about alcohol that allows you and your pals to get on a completely obscene subject and dwell on it for the rest of the night completely inappropriately. For us this involved specific human body parts that are generally regarded as taboo subjects for loud public dialogue. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say we informed the cabbie, every person on the NYC street within a 10 mile radius, the doorman at Maggie's apartment, all those residing in Maggie's building, innocent elevator by-standers, and friends accessible by cell phone and facebook of our feelings regarding above-discussed body parts.
Aside from inappropriate public discussion, the ridiculousness factor of our night was increased tenfold by, believe it or not, the presence of an Oreck vacuum. Preface to this: Maggie lives in an apartment that is extremely nice and relatively clean; however, she has been perpetually plagued as of late by the deteriorating appearance of her apartment rug, an essential aspect of her apartment decor. Day and night she has searched for remedies to the situation, in response to which a mysterious package labeled "Oreck" arrived in the mail.
Upon entrance into Maggie's apt. building that night, the Oreck vacuum package was spotted immediately, sitting next to the guilty doorman. There was nothing he could do to stop the group of overexcited and dangerously intoxicated girls completely focused on acquisition of said vacuum. The vacuum was obtained without signature, and took a rather fun adventure up to the 30th floor, which involved crawling on the lobby floor in order to push the vacuum, throwing of vacuum into the elevator, narrowly missing others present in the elevator who had no idea that by entering the elevator that night they were in fact at risk of experiencing a "death by Oreck." Upon final arrival at Maggie's apartment, the Oreck was laid to rest in a corner and the tired but accomplished girls all collapsed in a heap around it.
I'm too tired to write anymore, as I'm still recovering. But just wanted to give you a taste of just another night out in the city. I hope you all can come join in the normalcy sometime.
Just call me Nature Girl
Matt's favorite thing to do EVER is backpacking... a.k.a. hauling 25 pounds of shit through the woods so you can sleep in the dirt. Being the wonderfully supportive girlfriend that I am, I'm trying to disregard my initial thoughts on backpacking (why the hell would anyone want to do that) and be open minded about it (I'll go and pretend to enjoy myself...unconvincingly).
So I went along with him this weekend when a church youth group hired him to lead them on a backpacking expedition. I found that my initial feelings of hostility toward this activity were completely unfounded. After all, who wouldn't enjoy these highlights of the trip:
1) Hauling a 25-pound backpack up a large mountain. Keep in mind that this is approximately 25% of my body weight.
2) Being too sore to walk, bend over, laugh, or squat the next day. Then hauling a 25-pound backpack up another mountain.
3) Walking into a face level spider web, complete with large hairy spider, on my way to pee in the woods.
4) Peeing on my leg.
5) Getting lost in the dark on my way back from peeing on my leg.
6) Wearing pee-leg pants for 10 hours the next day.
7) Picking beetles out of my hair in the morning.
8) Waking up to the lovely aroma of caked-on sweat from the day before.
9) Getting clumps of brown tree sap goo stuck to my hands while building a campfire, and having these clumps that closely resemble turds remain stuck to my hands 2 days later, after repeated scourings.
In the interests of being positive, I will say that there were a few redeeming moments of the trip, such as 360 degree breathtaking views at the top of the mountain. Why it is necessary to haul 25 pound backpacks and sleep in the dirt to appreciate these views... well, this I couldn't tell you. But if anyone asks, I had a GREAT time. Me telling Matt I hate backpacking would be like him telling me he hates horses (gasp).
So I went along with him this weekend when a church youth group hired him to lead them on a backpacking expedition. I found that my initial feelings of hostility toward this activity were completely unfounded. After all, who wouldn't enjoy these highlights of the trip:
1) Hauling a 25-pound backpack up a large mountain. Keep in mind that this is approximately 25% of my body weight.
2) Being too sore to walk, bend over, laugh, or squat the next day. Then hauling a 25-pound backpack up another mountain.
3) Walking into a face level spider web, complete with large hairy spider, on my way to pee in the woods.
4) Peeing on my leg.
5) Getting lost in the dark on my way back from peeing on my leg.
6) Wearing pee-leg pants for 10 hours the next day.
7) Picking beetles out of my hair in the morning.
8) Waking up to the lovely aroma of caked-on sweat from the day before.
9) Getting clumps of brown tree sap goo stuck to my hands while building a campfire, and having these clumps that closely resemble turds remain stuck to my hands 2 days later, after repeated scourings.
In the interests of being positive, I will say that there were a few redeeming moments of the trip, such as 360 degree breathtaking views at the top of the mountain. Why it is necessary to haul 25 pound backpacks and sleep in the dirt to appreciate these views... well, this I couldn't tell you. But if anyone asks, I had a GREAT time. Me telling Matt I hate backpacking would be like him telling me he hates horses (gasp).
Friday, April 20, 2007
A Haiku Response
Bitches and Assholes
Who does not know both of you?
The streets of New York
this poem needs time to ripen...
Who does not know both of you?
The streets of New York
this poem needs time to ripen...
Research sucks
ahem... AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH adjfa;lskjdflksajdfl;ksafdjl;aksjdf;lskgj
(scream of frustration accompanied by toddler-style keyboard pounding)
If anyone reading this EVER even CONSIDERS getting a PhD and going into ANY type of research, STOP YOURSELF NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.
I found out today that because of a cruel trick of the miniscule processes of protein production that go on in every living organism, the last 2 YEARS of experimental work I have done will be 90% worthless. Not to mention the work of about 3 or 4 other people, and hundreds of thousands of dollars wasted. No exaggeration.
It's a long story and I'm sure you don't want me to try and explain the details. All I am capable of verbalizing today is that RESEARCH SUCKS. I mean, I hated my job already, but I thought I would at least get a publication or 2 with my name on it out of this hell I've been enduring for the past year. Turns out that I chopped off mouse tails and executed mice in miniature gas chambers 40 hours a week to be left at the end of this with... NOTHING. Except a guilty conscience and some really gross memories.
Get me out of here.
(scream of frustration accompanied by toddler-style keyboard pounding)
If anyone reading this EVER even CONSIDERS getting a PhD and going into ANY type of research, STOP YOURSELF NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.
I found out today that because of a cruel trick of the miniscule processes of protein production that go on in every living organism, the last 2 YEARS of experimental work I have done will be 90% worthless. Not to mention the work of about 3 or 4 other people, and hundreds of thousands of dollars wasted. No exaggeration.
It's a long story and I'm sure you don't want me to try and explain the details. All I am capable of verbalizing today is that RESEARCH SUCKS. I mean, I hated my job already, but I thought I would at least get a publication or 2 with my name on it out of this hell I've been enduring for the past year. Turns out that I chopped off mouse tails and executed mice in miniature gas chambers 40 hours a week to be left at the end of this with... NOTHING. Except a guilty conscience and some really gross memories.
Get me out of here.
Assholes
In response to Ms. Emily Sarokhan's profound post below, I would like to examine the bitch's alterego:
God, where do I start? Assholes are everywhere in New York. The doorman who smiles and says "have a nice day" and then proceeds to talk shit about me with his fellow doormen in espanol, the little boy who is screaming/crying "MOMMMMMMM I WANT ICE CREAM" (asshole in the making), and businessman who tries to cut in front of me in starbucks...you get the picture. below, i have listed some of the most popular types of assholes:
1. The "i am so hot i can bang any girl i want because i go tanning and gel my hair and take roids" asshole:
Do I even need to describe this type? One look at these losers and you know you are dealing with an asshole of extreme form. When dealing with this type, please realize that the asshole in question was probably verbally abused as a child and is probably hyped up on aderol right now. These assholes started as nice kids, but years of abuse from family members/peers have turned a perfectly good kid into asshole #1. the orange skin, gel in hair, 4 hours at the gym each day...all part of the quest for this asshole to feel good about himself. this is the character who spends the majority of his time sexually harrassing women of all shapes and sizes in places like marquee or pink elephant (he is on a first name basis with the doormen). this asshole usually attracts slutty girls and berates self-respecting women. he has posters of paris hilton and a variety of famous porn stars on his walls. you can usually spot A#1 by looking for cold sores on his lips. enticing.
2. The "i was here first so i am staying in this seat even though you are 8 months pregnant and it is 85 degrees in here" asshole:
Usually a bitter, older man who will disrespect you to your face. A#2 is not only rude to women, but to men, children, and living things in general (plants and animals). this is the guy who speeds his car up through the crosswalk when the pedestrians have the "go" sign. he flashes his finger high in the air when the aforementioned pedestrians yell, "fuck you, asshole." i actually found myself in a physical altercation with A#2 just this morning, when he pushed me off the sidewalk and into the street on his way to work. i, being a bitch, ran back onto the sidewalk just to push him back. the situation could have escalated quickly, and i almost wish it did, so i could be in the police station all day today instead of here, writing this.
3. the eclectic "i hate everyone in the whole wide world and i am going to kill myself soon so that gives me the right to blatantly disrespect you" asshole:
Clynically depressed. Usually went to art school. Lives in soho or greenwich village. Sits in his room smoking in the corner while editing his "lives that i am going to terminate soon" list. hair died black. looks anorexic. various piercings. A#3 will tell you to go fuck yourself if you ask him for the time or directions.
4. The "i drive a porsche and let women off the elevator first but in reality have no respect for them" asshole:
Usually hails from Greenwich, Connecticut or a similar place. A#4 attended private school for his entire childhood and then went off to excel in his studies at Yale. He now works at Goldman and summers in the Hamptons. This man has impeccable manners--he holds the door, says "excuse me, miss, i think you dropped this," he pays for dinner, etc. Sounds great, right? These assholes are usually not exposed in their true form until after they have been in a relationship for 6 months or more. If you meet one on the street, you'll think "my, what a gentlemen." STAY AWAY!!!! you will soon discover that he is a mysogynist with a capital M. He will someday cheat on his wife and become emotionally estranged from his children.
5. Assholes in female form:
I include myself in this category for the following reasons:
- i scream obscenities every morning as i'm getting ready for work. omg where is my
bronzer? fuck! SHITTTTTTTT. GOD DAMNIT I HATE EVERYONE
- i am 40 minutes late every single morning. i then proceed to take a 30 minutes starbucks
break, read perezhilton, talk on gmail, and do other miscellaneous bullshit things like this
blog. talk about blatent disrespect.
- i call my mom and blame her for the fact that my vacuum doesn't work/the lamp is
broken in my apartment. bitch.
- i told the guy with the beard and top hat who sits on the corner of park and 52nd to stop
fucking asking me if im jewish. he told me i was going to burn in hell. i told him to get a
real job.
that's it. have a nice day. sincerely, A#5
the asshole.
God, where do I start? Assholes are everywhere in New York. The doorman who smiles and says "have a nice day" and then proceeds to talk shit about me with his fellow doormen in espanol, the little boy who is screaming/crying "MOMMMMMMM I WANT ICE CREAM" (asshole in the making), and businessman who tries to cut in front of me in starbucks...you get the picture. below, i have listed some of the most popular types of assholes:
1. The "i am so hot i can bang any girl i want because i go tanning and gel my hair and take roids" asshole:
Do I even need to describe this type? One look at these losers and you know you are dealing with an asshole of extreme form. When dealing with this type, please realize that the asshole in question was probably verbally abused as a child and is probably hyped up on aderol right now. These assholes started as nice kids, but years of abuse from family members/peers have turned a perfectly good kid into asshole #1. the orange skin, gel in hair, 4 hours at the gym each day...all part of the quest for this asshole to feel good about himself. this is the character who spends the majority of his time sexually harrassing women of all shapes and sizes in places like marquee or pink elephant (he is on a first name basis with the doormen). this asshole usually attracts slutty girls and berates self-respecting women. he has posters of paris hilton and a variety of famous porn stars on his walls. you can usually spot A#1 by looking for cold sores on his lips. enticing.
2. The "i was here first so i am staying in this seat even though you are 8 months pregnant and it is 85 degrees in here" asshole:
Usually a bitter, older man who will disrespect you to your face. A#2 is not only rude to women, but to men, children, and living things in general (plants and animals). this is the guy who speeds his car up through the crosswalk when the pedestrians have the "go" sign. he flashes his finger high in the air when the aforementioned pedestrians yell, "fuck you, asshole." i actually found myself in a physical altercation with A#2 just this morning, when he pushed me off the sidewalk and into the street on his way to work. i, being a bitch, ran back onto the sidewalk just to push him back. the situation could have escalated quickly, and i almost wish it did, so i could be in the police station all day today instead of here, writing this.
3. the eclectic "i hate everyone in the whole wide world and i am going to kill myself soon so that gives me the right to blatantly disrespect you" asshole:
Clynically depressed. Usually went to art school. Lives in soho or greenwich village. Sits in his room smoking in the corner while editing his "lives that i am going to terminate soon" list. hair died black. looks anorexic. various piercings. A#3 will tell you to go fuck yourself if you ask him for the time or directions.
4. The "i drive a porsche and let women off the elevator first but in reality have no respect for them" asshole:
Usually hails from Greenwich, Connecticut or a similar place. A#4 attended private school for his entire childhood and then went off to excel in his studies at Yale. He now works at Goldman and summers in the Hamptons. This man has impeccable manners--he holds the door, says "excuse me, miss, i think you dropped this," he pays for dinner, etc. Sounds great, right? These assholes are usually not exposed in their true form until after they have been in a relationship for 6 months or more. If you meet one on the street, you'll think "my, what a gentlemen." STAY AWAY!!!! you will soon discover that he is a mysogynist with a capital M. He will someday cheat on his wife and become emotionally estranged from his children.
5. Assholes in female form:
I include myself in this category for the following reasons:
- i scream obscenities every morning as i'm getting ready for work. omg where is my
bronzer? fuck! SHITTTTTTTT. GOD DAMNIT I HATE EVERYONE
- i am 40 minutes late every single morning. i then proceed to take a 30 minutes starbucks
break, read perezhilton, talk on gmail, and do other miscellaneous bullshit things like this
blog. talk about blatent disrespect.
- i call my mom and blame her for the fact that my vacuum doesn't work/the lamp is
broken in my apartment. bitch.
- i told the guy with the beard and top hat who sits on the corner of park and 52nd to stop
fucking asking me if im jewish. he told me i was going to burn in hell. i told him to get a
real job.
that's it. have a nice day. sincerely, A#5
Bitches
Ok before you write this post off as being completely inappropriate, please be aware that my intention here is to seriously analyze the history, types, and some of the motivations behind being what we like to call a "bitch."
The bitch phenomenon materialized pretty much since the creation of man, or should I say woman, but I feel as though in recent times it has metastasized at a particularly rapid rate. Ok maybe that's just because I'm in New York City, and in a city of 8 million people, hey, you're bound to run into a good number of bitches. But before you go getting testy, or should I say "bitchy" in reaction to this, please be aware that I am not excluding myself from this category. I know for a fact that those who have encountered me on the streets of New York have in one way or another written me off either mentally or what is often the case, vocally, as a "bitch." I am not too sure of the reasoning for this, but believe it may have something to do with my propensity to shove people when they are walking too slowly in front of me, or perhaps it's the look of utter disgust that seems to always define my facial expressions on weekdays before the hour of 9 am. Either way, I would like to think that under the personality category next to my name that the word "bitch" does not appear. Instead, I hope that the description reads something along the lines of "is generally nice, friendly and attentive to others, but at times extremely bitchy." But enough about me, let's talk about other bitches.
Types of Bitches:
1) Bitches in Disguise: Some of you may have taken time out of your day to catch the movie "Mean Girls." Trust me, time well spent. I cannot emphasize to you enough the high educational value of this movie, specifically with regards to the topic at hand. Anyway, as for my first category "bitches in disguise," I like to describe these girls as the "I love your skirt so much (NOT)" girls. If they don't have a burn book at home, they have something like it. Oh and completely off topic, but extremely important, I'm bringing back the above use of "NOT" in daily conversation. I love how it grants you the ability to instill within people an overwhelming sense of hope and gratitude and then allows you to instantly stifle it with one giant crushing utterance of this wonderful little three letter word. What power! Wow I am a bitch.
2) Explicit Bitches:
These girls cannot hide their bitchiness no matter how hard they try. Everything about them emanates bitchiness, it even seeps out through their pores. I may or may not work with some of them...
3) Fleeting Bitches:
This is a popular category that many of us fit into about once a month. It is a much more excusable type of bitchiness, and ranks much lower on the bitchiness richter scale.
4) Disgustingly Nice Bitches:
These girls are so nice and bubbly and friendly it's disgusting. You may confuse this with category one and think it is purposeful fakeness. But this category differs in that these girls actually think they are this happy and friendly and love everyone. What they naively do not realize is that they are so happy and disgustingly nice that it actually categorizes them as some of the worst bitches out there.
I hope I have now sufficiently depressed you. Of course there are a million other types of bitches out there that I did not touch upon. And we have not yet delved beneath the surface of what actually leads someone down the bitchiness road. But do not worry, I'm not going anywhere, and there are more posts to be done...
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