Monday, November 15, 2010

Awkward Little Problems

Last night I watched the first half of The Elephant Man.  Definitely worth seeing.  It’s about a man who struggled with a horrible deformity.  His head is bulbous and misshapen, his spine is twisted and bent, and he can’t walk without a cane.
In addition to practically changing my life, this movie made me feel much less sorry for the Phantom of the Opera.  The guy gets one burn on the side of his face and suddenly he’s kidnapping ladies and setting booby traps for anyone who might catch a glimpse of his “awkward little problem.” 
Honestly, after his emotional rants about how ugly he is, I expected something a little more…ugly.  Maybe with half of a nose missing, or a gaping hole in his cheek.  But when he removed his mask – disabling the invisible force field that made his half-bald head look like it was full of hair – his face only looked sunburned and scabby.  He probably just stayed out in the sun for too long and felt self-conscious.  Sheesh, what a diva.  At this rate, men will be hiding in the basements of opera houses because they have unibrows or cut their ears while shaving.
I also felt much better about the zit on my chin.  Hold on, I need to cancel my order to the mask store. 
They cancelled most of my order, but they already started on the custom purple feathered cornucopia mask, so I guess I could keep it just in case my face is ever severely sunburned.
Advice of the day:  Your zit-faced neighbor is not an animal!  Your zit-faced neighbor is a human being!

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Thank Goodness For Standard First Aid Kits

Today I fell apart again.  I didn’t even mean to.  There I was, minding my own business, when my arm popped off like a Barbie doll limb.  Did not see that coming.  Arms are hard to reattach, so I decided that I might as well take off the other one so I wouldn’t feel all lopsided on the way home.  I stuck them in my backpack and had a very polite gentleman-type guy put it on my shoulders.  I don’t know if his eyes were almost bigger than his face because he was surprised or because his eyes were just made that way.  Who am I to judge?
I made my way home so I could attach my arms with the arm reattaching machine that came in my standard first aid kit.  But when I arrived at my messy dorm, I tripped over fifteen empty boxes of chocolate orange sticks that happened to be stacked on my floor and hit my head on my third basket of dirty laundry.  I must have hit it pretty hard because when I stood up again, it was dark outside, and when I went out to the hall, I found it deserted because everyone had already gone home for Christmas break.  Using mostly my right foot, I checked my phone for texts.  I had a record breaking five, and they were all from my sister.  I only checked one, and it said, “Y r u skppng Christmas, u lame sauce spit monkey!  Oh well I’ll just open your presents 4 u.  l8r, h8r!”
Feeling slightly put out, I took down my first aid kit from its shelf by jumping for it and snagging it with my teeth like some kind of trained seal or spit monkey.  My arms had grown a bit moldy from sitting in my backpack for so long, but I reattached them without too much difficulty.  With my arms reattached, I was ready to have my own Christmas.  I carved a little Christmas tree out of some string cheese I found lying around and I sang some old carols, and then some new ones that I made up on the spot.  They were beautiful.
I gave myself some presents I scavenged from my room, including a box of stale crackers and my roommate’s baseball hat.  I eagerly put it on and looked at myself in the mirror.  I was gorgeous, of course, except for a lightning-shaped bump on my forehead.  I decided to trace the bump with eyeliner so it would be more noticeable.  The bump would be my good luck charm.  It would help me do magic and fly and talk to animals.  Excited with the abilities I knew I must have now, I grabbed a broomstick and jumped out the window so I could soar into the starry night like a bird.  I think my broom was defective, though, because I sort of flew more like an anvil than a bird.  Luckily, the dumpster under my window was open and I landed safely in a mushy concoction of banana peels and mystery goo.  But my arms popped off again.
After hoisting myself out of the dumpster, I picked up my arms with my teeth and dragged them to my dorm like a Chihuahua dragging a newspaper.  I reattached my arms, watched Muppet Christmas Carol, and went to bed humming to myself. 
Overall, I think my Christmas was pretty good.  I’ll have to make it even better next year by painting my string cheese tree with my green nail polish, and maybe if I’m good I’ll give myself my roommate’s beanbag chair.  I can’t wait!

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Lord of the Cheese

Textbooks hurt your head when you have to read them three times over.  They also hurt your head when they repeatedly make contact with your face.  Here’s a tip: don’t read a textbook and take a nap at the same time.  That’s a multi-task feat that has never worked for me, especially since I can’t sleep with my eyes open or keep my face from hitting my textbook.  I really need to think about investing in some eBooks, or perhaps a book made out of pillows and equipped with a detachable down comforter.  Or maybe a textbook made of the fluffy chocolate in Three Musketeers bars.  Then I would have a comfortable surface to hit with my face and a delicious snack to boot.
But it is not to be.  I’m stuck with my brick-hard psychology textbook and nothing to snack on but stale wheat thins and despair.  I would cheer myself up by taking a walk, but I think that requires actual movement.  So no walking for me.  And I don’t have a car to drive, or a horse to ride on, or a boyfriend who is also a centaur who can give me a ride to Disneyland or maybe just the mall. 
I suppose I could count the blessings I have instead of the centaur-related ones I don’t.  For one, I have two boxes of Fruity Pebbles cereal.  Two!  That’s almost as good as a Three Musketeers pillow.  I also have all ten fingernails.  And a little scar on the back of my hand.  I mean, who doesn’t want a little scar on the back of their hand?  No one, that’s who.
I also have a tiny tribe of people carved out of string cheese who worship me regularly (if they don’t, I eat their little canoes).  I’m like, super grateful for that.  It’s pretty nice being worshipped by cheese-people.  The cheese-people live in houses made of the empty wrappers from whence they came.  The houses are on my desk.  To appease my overlord whims, they build me cheese statues and do my easier homework assignments for me.  In return, I give them more wrappers so they can make additions to their houses.  One of them is putting in a pool tomorrow.  But some of the teenage cheese hooligans have been spray-painting my statues. I think I’m going to have to eat a couple of canoes sometime soon to show them whose boss.
But it is time for the baby cheese nomads to go to bed, and my loud typing is keeping them up, poor things.  Why didn’t I write my blog earlier, you ask?  Because I am lazy and illogical, that’s why.  Advice of the day: If you have little nomads made of cheese living on your desk, you probably shouldn’t tell your roommate that they make canoes and worship you. 

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Empty Twinkies

There are so many things I could blog about right now, and I don’t know where on earth to start.
For instance, I could blog about how string cheese was on sale today.  I bought seven (lucky number) and I plan on making them all into a fleet of little canoes before I eat them.  They are much more delicious in canoe form.  But first I will need to acquire the necessary tools to make the canoes.  I already have teeth and fingers, but I would like to have a toothpick to carve my name on the sides so my roommate doesn’t think they are hers and eats them herself.  But the only place I know that has toothpicks is Tucanos, so I will have to save up enough money to buy a meal there before I can have my toothpick.  Until then my string cheese will stay in their wrappers like little logs cut from trees made of delicious fake cheese.
While buying cheese was probably the most exciting part of my day, it was not the only part worth mentioning.  I went to the international theater again, but I left it as uncultured as ever.  Apparently the labels on my new black turtleneck and beret that advertised they would make the wearer more cultured were exaggerating slightly.  I’ll be returning them tomorrow and I expect a full refund and a sincere apology from the sales clerk. 
The most boring part of my day was when I arrived to a class half an hour early and was forced to pretend to read my textbook while I waited.  I couldn’t actually read my textbook because textbooks are boring and they suck the happiness out of you like my brother sucks the filling out of my Twinkies.  Eventually I remembered that I have Tetris on my phone, and I settled down to playing the only sport I show any aptitude in.  This passed the time quite nicely, and before I knew it I was sitting in class and creating some wonderful doodle specimens in my doodle notebook.  I think I’ll have that notebook published.  I’ll call it, “Sara’s Encyclopedia of Under-Appreciated Doodles.”  It’ll fly off the shelves.
And now I have to wash my face before my roommate comes back and catches me using her nice face-cloth.  Advice of the day: If life gives you empty Twinkies, try filling them with Jr. Mints.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Secrets, Poop, and Stiletto Heels

The other day my roommate said, “Sara, can you believe it?  We’re in college!  We go to relief society!  We aren’t young women anymore, we are women!”
She beamed at me, and I smiled wanly, hoping that I hadn’t blown my cover.
My roommate turned back to her homework, humming contentedly.  I too returned to my homework, my hands a little sweatier than before.  There was something my roommate couldn’t know, something no BYU administrator can ever know.
I have a secret.
Did you know that BYU does not let children come to their school?  It’s the fifth rule in the BYU’s Underappreciated Rulebook for Poor Students, or BURPS.  It clearly states that all students must possess adult-like qualities in order to be accepted into BYU. 
The problem is, I’m not an adult.
Oh, sure, I may be physically old enough to go to college, unless my doctor has been lying to me all these years.  But mentally I’m a giggly little girl who doesn’t belong in the “big people” school.  I managed to slip through the system by faking maturity, which I have been doing since grade school.  It’s not too difficult, really.  I just have to nod when someone else talks, restrain myself from throwing my food at the ceiling to see how long it sticks, and pretending I enjoy sophisticated things like stiletto heels and beach volleyball.
So far my immaturity has passed by unnoticed, but I can’t keep it a secret forever.  Sometimes it slips out against my will.  For instance, I can’t help but snort with laughter when I hear words like “poop,” “burp,” and “more poop.”  Grownups don’t think poop is a funny word.  I know this because I yelled “poop” at my mom and she just stared at me (like “poop” isn’t a perfectly acceptable word to yell in Nordstrom’s).
I’m sure that in accordance with BURPS, the school will soon conduct a campus-wide “immaturity hunt”, where they will line the students up and yell “POOP!” at each one in turn to see if they laugh.  The moment I catch wind of the surprise inspection, I’m hopping on my tricycle and peddling my way to a land where it is acceptable for adults to watch Barbie movies and wear pajamas with feet in them, somewhere where I will not have to pretend I enjoy ridiculous things like volleyball (seriously, it hurts my little arms).  Until then, I’m laying low and working the system for as long as I can.  Just don’t tell BYU.  Or my roommate.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

My Stupid Head

I was in a bad mood today, and to make matters worse I had a devil of a time finding something to blame it on.  The weather was nice, my soup was hot but not so hot that it burned my tongue, and my hair practically did itself.  Have you ever heard anything more awful?
Glaring at the sky, the mountains, and my complacent hair (really, I can’t remember the last time it was that easy to do) I walked to class in high dudgeon.  I narrated my feelings in my head with over-complicated words like dudgeon and irascible and composed an emotional poem that I planned on submitting to a “Shakespeare hates your emo poems” contest (the contest doesn’t exist yet so I’m starting one in November). 
But I still had nothing to blame my mood on.  It couldn’t be my fault because I’m almost a perfect person and my hair looked nice.  I tried blaming it on the leaves crunching under my feet as I made my way to physical science.  Some of them weren’t crunching nearly loud enough, and I can’t see how anyone could stay in good humor after being abused like that.  Stupid leaves.
I added the leaves to my poem (Wet leaves that refused to crunch beneath/my morose, cantankerous shoes) but it wasn’t very convincing.  I tried to think of other things to blame my mood on.  Men, people who part their hair down the middle, and the relatively new writers of Spongebob Squarepants crossed my mind.  They were all good options, but they lacked the umph I needed for when I would complain to my friends and random people on the street later.  I needed something dramatic like my hands falling off or my hamster maxing my credit card on the shopping channel.  Stupid hamster.
A few moronic poems later, I was left with nothing but a splitting headache.  Not even one plausible excuse for my belligerence.  Stupid brain.
The headache grew like a nasty, radioactive super-plant and I was forced to take some advil and a two-hour nap.  My head is still throbbing, though.  I suppose a good eight-hour sleep will help abate the pain, but who can tell?  And I still haven’t thought of a plausible excuse for my bad mood.  Stupid almost-migraine headache.

Monday, October 11, 2010

How Youtube Robin Hood Failed Me Again

Last week was national Don’t Write Anything on Your Blog Week.  Really.  If you don’t believe me, go ahead and send the government an email.  It’s  They’ll be happy to reply with multiple emails that might even answer your questions.
Today I was trying to avoid homework and this blog just wasn’t cutting it, so I decided to search for the newest episode of the BBC’s Merlin.  Usually some youtube Robin Hood will illegally post these episodes online, but this time they let me down.  Either Robin was taking a vacation or I’ve got to bust him out of jail.  I’ve seen five minutes of The Great Escape, so it shouldn’t be too hard.
Until I manage to buy a motorcycle and a busting out of jail kit, I will have to make do without my current favorite show.  It really is a good one; you just have to be able to overlook the stiff acting of the Morgana character, the horrible special effects, and the blatant historical inaccuracies.  My favorite part of the show is Merlin, played by Colin Morgan, an actor who is so attractive that I actually bothered to memorize his name.  Other actors included on this list are Brad Pitt, who looks really good when he eats food, and James Marsden, who looks really good when he bites his fist or scoffs. 
Stop looking at me like that.
Anyway, when this homework avoidance mechanism failed I was forced to resort to sitcoms from the eighties and ice cream bars.  I couldn’t concentrate on the stale jokes or grainy images because I kept thinking about Colin Morgan and badly animated dragons.  Oh Robin, how could you have failed me?  HOW?!?
I need to look at Colin Morgan pictures on the internet and deplete my supply of ice cream bars right now, or I’ll be forced to actually read an entire chapter of my psychology textbook before class, and nobody wants that.  Trust me. 
(P. S. – I just broke the record for my shortest blog yet!  WOOOOT!)

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Lead Fingers

I woke up this morning to find my fingers had turned to lead.  I stared at them, tapped the wall with them, rubbed them on my face, and stuck them in my mouth.  I was then forced to conclude that my fingers had indeed turned into lead.
But even girls with lead fingers have to go to class.  Packing my books took a little longer than usual because I had to deal with my new fingers, but I was eventually on my way.  I spent most of psychology staring sadly at my highlighter and wishing I could use it, but I was unable to grasp it in my hand.  In English I didn’t see the point in even trying so I stared at the ceiling while my teacher droned on about grammar and explained how to find symbolism in music videos.  I spent my next two classes examining my fingers and thinking Why me?  WHY ME?!?!?!?
Okay, okay, my fingers didn’t really turn into lead.  But they felt as if they turned into lead so it comes to the same thing, really.  And if I don’t feel like highlighting my textbook I don’t see why I should have to. 
I felt like my fingers were made of lead because bananas are yellow, but also because I was tired.  Being tired should be a good enough reason to skip school.  The only thing worse than being tired is being dead, and people miss school for that, so it follows that tired people should miss school, too.
I wouldn’t have to miss school for being tired if there was anywhere on campus that sells caffeine.  The way kids stay awake here is by slipping an ice cube down their backs and jumping around until it melts.  This is neither as satisfying nor as delicious as Dr. Pepper.  Don’t expect recovery when you won’t provide the medicine, campus officials.  Sheesh. 
I think I’ll write a professional letter with spray paint on the side of the building about this “no caffeine” issue, but it will have to wait for tomorrow because I need to shake out my fingers, comb my hair 100 times, ignore my messy room once again, and collapse into bed.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The Study Process

Everyone has different ways to study for tests.  Some people make study schedules and read their textbooks when they are supposed to.  Some people make hundreds of little flashcards.  Still others read their textbooks at the speed of light and use time travel to take their tests multiple times until they get a perfect score (how else could anyone ever get a perfect score?).  My method, like my asparagus breakfast cereal, is unique.  I have a special process that has taken years to perfect.  It goes like this:
To begin my study session, I carefully arrange my room to provide maximum concentration power.  To an outside observer, my room might just look messy, but the clothes on my floor and the trash on my desk are there for a reason.  Really.  So get off my back, I’ll clean when I’m done!  Sheesh. 
When my room is ready, I put in my ear buds and listen to Broadway show tunes on my iPod while I wave my hands around as if I were a windmill.  This physically prepares me for my studying.  It also gives me a chance to pretend I live the actor’s life or that I’m fighting off Don Quixote.  Recently, however, I have been forced to imagine acting like a buffoon in my head because I don’t want my roommate to hang me for witchcraft, which is how any sane person would react to my tomfoolery.
After my imagined dancing, I usually like to pace and mutter to myself.  Sometimes I wring my hands or gnaw on my fingernails.  I’ve heard that this is not an acceptable way to behave in public so I never study in the library if I can help it because I’ll never be able to give up pacing.  When I eventually fulfill my dream of building my pyramid-house, I plan on putting in a special room just for pacing.  I’ll put it next to the room where I’ll keep my inflatable footbath collection.
After a considerable amount of time has passed, I take a break from my pacing and collapse in my chair. I chomp on fistfuls of pretzels while I skim my textbook.  After a few pages, I realize I should probably highlight important information and I have to start over.  I read half the chapter, and then I decide to make flashcards as I go along, too.  So I start over again.  At this point, I am almost an expert on everything at the beginning of the chapter.  The reading/highlighting/flashcard-making is going splendidly, but my hands become so occupied that it becomes increasingly difficult to eat my pretzels. 
I can’t possibly study without eating pretzels, so I take a break from studying to construct a hand-free pretzel eating device made out of rubber bands and packing foam.  This takes several hours, and by the time I finish it is time for me to go to bed.  I have affectively learned half of my material and I need to know the whole chapter by the next day.  I convince myself that I will wake up early to finish, even though I know I won’t, and then I drift off into a contented sleep.
And that is how I study.  Hey, buddy, at least I have a process.  Don’t judge.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

TA's, Praying Mantises, and Stroganoff

It is important to make sure the TAs know you, or at least know your name.  Any publicity is good publicity with those people.  That’s why I called them all together for a meeting.  I planned the time and location, but I couldn’t think of anything to talk about, so I settled for tripping when I entered the room to get their attention.  I had it all figured out:  I would carry a huge stack of multi-colored flyers and dramatically fling them into the air as I pretended to trip.  They would never forget me.  The only problem was, nobody showed up to the meeting.  Weird.
I had to think of an alternative way to make them notice me.  After much deliberation, I decided to send them an obnoxious email asking an obvious question.  I asked them when the testing center closes.  I already know it closes at midnight ten, and even if I didn’t I’d know where to look it up.  Faking ignorance was all part of my plan.
The venture was not as successful as I would have hoped.  One of them snapped at me for emailing them before noon, one of them thought the testing center closed at eleven, and four of them didn’t even bother answering.  I’ve never felt so anonymous, except for that time when I went to the Common Names Convention.  I had no idea so many people were trying to impersonate me!  Luckily I happened to have my pepper spray and thumbscrew keychain and I took care of the knaves pretty quickly.
I will have to think of another way to be noticed and remembered by my TA’s.  Maybe I could knit them personalized ascots, or name my pet praying mantises after them.  I’ll think of something epic.
By the way, why are praying mantises called praying mantises?  They don’t look like they are praying to me.  They look like they are obsessively rubbing their hands together like an evil scientist or a super-villain.  Probably some old grandmother named them that when her grandson came to her in tears because a mantis had eaten his pet pill-bug.  She probably drew him close and said, “Mantises aren’t so bad.  Look, that one’s saying a prayer before she eats her mate.  Let’s call them praying mantises.”  She would have smiled benignly, and the little boy would have been haunted for years by nightmares about being eaten by his wife.
I need to go to bed, but I’m kind of afraid I’ll have nightmares where I’m eaten by my future spouse.  I’ll have to be sure to find a man who at least has the decency to pray before he makes me into delicious stroganoff.  That would be a comfort to me.       

Monday, September 27, 2010

People Who Waste Their Time Studying Grow up to be Serial Killers

If someone tells you that tests are fun, run away screaming because that person is a filthy, stinking liar.  You should also run away screaming if a person points out that your shoes are untied, because they are probably a part of the infamous shoelace gang and are sworn to kill anyone who doesn’t tie their shoes or properly respect aglets.
But people who say tests are fun are the worst.  Tests are not fun.  They may have been fun in kindergarten because you were tested on play-dough sculpting abilities, but now tests are the bane of humanity (I always want to spell “kindergarten” like this: kid-nergarten.  The word “kid” should be a part of “kindergarten.”  I’m just saying…).  Now that I’m an “adult”, I have to actually study for tests.  I spend hours sitting on the couch and reading textbooks, and it’s killing me.  KILLING ME!  Between studying and watching my daily TV show and napping, my schedule is packed.  How am I supposed to keep my precious play-dough sculpting skills up?  Where can I possibly find the time to roll down grassy hills?  When can I ever terrorize twelve – year – olds if I can’t even spare a minute to change into my Lindsey Lohan costume?  Why must I suffer so much? 
It isn’t all bad, though.  Whenever I have to waste my time pouring over textbooks, I am able to console myself with Disney music and buckets of potato chips.  I can also usually find time to make play-dough statues in my honor and chase small children over the weekend.  But it is hard to give up my nobler pursuits in favor of measly academics.
It probably won’t be so difficult when I become more organized.  I’ll have to make a color-coded schedule.  It will take time to coordinate my different duties, partially because I can’t do certain things at certain times of day.  For instance, I can’t eat dinner at one in the morning (that’s when I eat lunch) and I can’t dress up as Lindsey Lohan during the day, because everyone knows she shrivels up in the sunlight.  Still, I’m well on my way.  I’m a little hung up on the colors, though.  I don’t want to end up with boring ones like forest-green or burgundy.  I’d much rather have interesting colors like macaroni-beige or puce.  Maybe then I won’t fall asleep while I try to organize my time.
According to the first draft of my non-color-coded schedule, study time is over!  The next item on my agenda is my pre-lunch sculpting project.  Maybe a tribute to me wearing a moustache made out of a delicious sandwich.  Or how I would look as a rainbow-parrot-unicorn.  The world is my sculpt-able oyster!  

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Twinkies and Annoying French Sounds

People define happiness in all sorts of different ways.  To some, happiness is a warm puppy, but to others, it’s waiting in line for four hours to see the Harry Potter premier at midnight.  Today I found happiness in a box of Oreos (no, it wasn’t a cool prize, it was just Oreos).  I ate the cookies in a matter of minutes, but I quickly learned that happiness can turn into pain when it hits the stomach.  Why didn’t I eat broccoli instead?  WHY!?!
I realized that I need to make some serious changes to my diet.  I started by buying some hot pockets with something green in them; a definite step in the right direction.  Maybe tomorrow I could order a cheeseburger with lettuce and tomatoes.  And then I’ll graduate from cheeseburgers to bacon sandwiches with wheat bread and then to trail mix with only some M&Ms.  Eventually I’ll be eating spinach leaves with nothing on them and nibbling croutons for dessert.  I’ll supplement this diet with magic health pills, which will probably be invented by the time I stop eating fast food.
But if my plan succeeds, how will I ever be happy again?  I’m a huge fan of food, and as any football or dungeons and dragons fan will tell you, a fan is happiest when they are with whatever it is they are fans of.  I suppose I could still be with unhealthy food without eating it.  I could keep a box of Twinkies by my bed, and every morning I could smell them and confide in them and love them as if they were my children.  I hear Twinkies are so full of preservatives that they never go bad, so this plan is foolproof.  I could even wait for one of them to harden and wear it like an amulet around my neck.  Then I would never have to be separated from my idol and the Twinkie would probably protect me from rogue unicorns and other dangerous mythical beasts.  Flies could be a problem, though.  I would have to buy a fly-warding amulet.  But those usually clash with my eyes, so I would have to get some sort of anti-clash charm…
This could be more complicated than I thought.  Maybe I should just get a warm puppy.  I could make it sleep on an electric blanket to guarantee maximum warmth.  But electric blankets are expensive, and I am a financial slave to my costly school fees.  Maybe I could afford a candle warmer, or I could heat the puppy up in the microwave every day.  That would work, right?
I’m not sure where happiness is, and frankly, finding happiness sounds kinda hard.  Like, I might have to put some actual effort into it.  Is that even legal?  Shouldn’t happiness be handed to me on a silver platter?  I’d even settle for a wooden platter. 
This is the part where I say something ambiguous and general about happiness, like how maybe I’ll find it someday and we should never give up, blah blah blah.  An ending like this would be boring and probably stupid, so I choose to end with a haughty French noise.  P-fuit!

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Black Turtlenecks and Me

Today I wanted to become more cultured.  I hear that a cultured person is viewed by society as super-smart, and that it is perfectly acceptable for cultured people to wear black turtlenecks and berets.  I was kind of hoping the culture fairy would come and zap me with her Cultured Staff of Wisdom, but the vending machines were out of fairy pizza, so I had to become cultured in other ways.  I had a few options available to me:
1)      Move to France – This worked in Sabrina, so I don’t see why it couldn’t work for me.  I would have to live there for at least a couple weeks, but when I returned to America I would be totally cultured and probably ten times more fashionable.  Unfortunately, I am much too broke to attempt such a trip.  What I really need is a culture sponsor. 
2)      Acquire a Taste for Jazz Music – Enjoying Jazz music makes you cultured.  I have no idea why, but it does.
3)      Attend Poetry Readings – Although I enjoy poetry, this would not be an option for me because I can’t snap.  Sometimes I can fake a snap by moving my hand really fast and slapping a table at the same time, but I think I would be facing some serious snap scrutiny if I went to one of these shindigs. 
4)      Read Dante’s Inferno – I seriously considered this one, but I think it only works if you can talk about it using only four-syllable words, and I have to speak in mostly single-syllable words or my head explodes.
As I fingered the spine of a copy of Dante’s Inferno, I remembered a fifth way to become cultured:
5)      Watch a Foreign Film – You know, the kind where they have to put subtitles on the bottom.
All I had to do was sit in a dark room for 96 minutes.  This was almost as good as the culture fairy, and definitely cheaper than a trip to France.  So I went to a foreign film theater and watched Russian Ark.  It’s too bad I know almost nothing about Russian history except that Joseph Stalin was self-conscious about his height (a plight with which I can truly empathize).  I only understood two historical events, and was surprised when the main character realized he had been on a giant boat the entire time.  Or a giant ark.  Whatever.  Confused at the meaning, I consulted the stars, and when that didn’t work I turned to my old pal, Wikipedia.
It turned out to have something to do with preserving Russian history and (that’s right, you guessed it) CULTURE!  In your face, France!  I don’t need your culture enlightenment or your incredible makeovers!
And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to buy a black turtleneck and a beret.     

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

First of all, let me say that the extent of my blogging knowledge comes from the movie Julie and Julia and perusing some random peoples’ blogs.  So yes, I do know what I’m doing.  (It has something to do with cooking, right?)
I’m not sure this is the best time to start a blog, though.  I’m terrible at cooking and I’m not passing through any kind of catalyst in my life.  This is more of an excuse to not do my psychology homework.  Why do I do this to myself?  I’ll have to study eventually and I know that by not doing it now I’ll be missing out Prime Sleep Time, not to mention my subconscious’ interpretation of what I did that day.  (It tripped out a pretty good dream last night about a buffalo eating ho ho’s.  Could be a biblical reference to Joseph’s dream, which probably means I will be undergoing a serious ho ho famine for the next few years.  I’d better stock up…)
But procrastinating is part of who I am.  I don’t think I can change my basic nature.  I am unable to focus on anything except literature for any length of time.  Starting this blog was probably a mistake because I doubt it will have more than two entries:  This one, and something about the new Harry Potter movie and how it didn’t live up to my expectations, which have risen so high they’ve been launched into orbit.  My faithful followers (my parents and my dog) will be bummed at my inability show any signs of consistency, and I will be bummed that I squandered such a brilliant homework-avoidance mechanism.  Ah, well.
My tentative goal is to write a little every day.  Even if it is the equivalent of sending a letter that is really a piece of used gum folded up in a napkin, I will write something.  It could be like keeping a diary, except less private and more inconvenient. 
Here’s a shout out to my siblings, who probably don’t have time to read this, and to anyone who has pinkeye.  I feel your pain.  Also to anyone who has ever tripped on the same object/ledge/crack twice in the same day.  And to people who have barely written to their missionary cousins.  (Cousins are supposed to love you anyway, right?  RIGHT?!?) 
Advice of the day:  Stock up on ho ho’s.  I have a bad feeling about that buffalo thing…