Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.
Friday, March 22, 2013
I don't drink. I mean I have had a few glasses of wine, sipped some cocktails, tasted vodka, and spit beer onto some guys shoes almost as soon as I took a rather daring gulp from a plastic cup, but I have never seen the point to drinking. I go to all of these parties, mostly because my mother keeps telling me to be more social and my sorority requires us to meet a quota, and all these people are idiots. Most are not even drunk, they're just acting like because it will somehow make them more socially acceptable. Maybe I'm missing out though because those parties are as boring and awkward as having to wait in line at the DMV while some old man tells you that you look like his dead wife when she was young, as he licks his lips and runs his tongue across his yellowing teeth. Maybe you have to be drunk or seemingly drunk to have fun at one of those parties. Beer is the main event because it's cheap along side the barely dressed girls seeking higher education, who are helping this generation take a step back from feminism. I having never liked the taste of beer and all the drunken frat guys can't seem to get over that fact. They always tell me, usually after turning their baseball cap around, that beer is an acquired taste. You might not like beer now, but everyone hates beer at first, that's why you have to keep drinking it till it tastes good. I never thought this was a good reason. It's like everyone gets peer pressured into drinking until we eventually start to enjoy it. But, let me tell you something. That's not an "acquired taste." That's Stockholm Syndrome.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
So, in the sorority house the toilet paper has been taken hostage along with the paper towels. Our housing chair is crazy, like legitimately -she has been to rehab/ psych ward several times but to no avail- crazy. She thinks the sorority is going through too much toilet paper too fast. Which is absurd because 1. We are girls (not really sure this counts, but we stereotypically spend a lot of time in the bathroom, so I'm putting it as a reason). 2. They are seven of us who live here. 3. Plus other members of the sorority who come over, plus friends, plus their stupid boyfriends who always leave the seat up. She is hiding the stash in her room and I mean she is literally hiding it. Some of us did a secret mission to steal it back from this crazy toilet paper overlord we now seem to have. It was a failed mission because she hid it somewhere in her room and we couldn't relocate it. Now, everyone has seemed to declare war on each other and we all have our own roll we have somehow acquired and are hiding it away from the rest of the house. My bathroom mate, however, is going through my stuff and using my stash even though she has her own six pack in her room! Our housing chair has turned each one of us into Smeagol and all the toilet paper into our own disposal ring. I'm getting really upset with my bathroom mate taking what is mine (I wrote my name on it!), however, and I am planning on perhaps doing a suicide mission, by that I mean putting icy hot of the roll and let the chips fall where they may. You may ask why we just don't buy our own pack of rolls or come to some kind of peace treaty. It is simple really, it is the principle of the matter and there is no glory in surrender!
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
It is midterm week here and we are all going a bit mad. It has been one late night after the next and we are starting to lose it. Last night, my friends and I were studying and we decide we were thirsty. Instead of going to the store or the gas station to get soda, coffee, or red bull, or all three, we decide to make our own butterbeer. Just a friendly reminder, butterbeer is a drink from Harry Potter. Now, it is a fictional drink, but I think it is suppose to taste like cream soda. We decide, however, to take the name literally. Again, we are practically zombies this week because of midterms and we were clearly not thinking. We had very limited supplies in our fridge and in the end we just put random stuff into a blender and crossed our fingers. The main component was butter. The results were anything but magical. I have never been so sick in my life. I tried to spite it out, but swallowed some in the process. I doubt Harry was ever in the bathroom with his head in the toilet all night when he went for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, thought he might have when he upgraded to fire whiskey...
Saturday, March 2, 2013
So, today is my birthday! It has only been 11 minutes or so but it has been great so far. There was a weird moment though. I live in a sorority house with six other girls and at midnight I did not hear a chorus of happy birthdays. Instead, one of my housemates shouted from the laundry room, "Oh shit, I put two condoms in the wash. Do you think they will still work." Meanwhile, the rest of them are drinking wine and trying to bake. They put sunglasses on the cakes to make them cool faster. What a great way to start my twenties.
Friday, February 15, 2013
I still don’t understand the Midwestern urge to hunt. The guys in class sit, scribbling mk47s and deer corpses on the margin of their notes during class like middle school girls do with wedding dresses. I cannot tell you how many times I have walk to class and seen frat guys stringing up dead deer to their cars or trees. No one should have to be forced to vomit on his or her way to class. I dislike seeing the eyes of dead deer staring lifelessly at me on my way to class and hunting my dreams at night. I doubt any of them have seen Bambi.
Damn you, Jane Austen. Last week, I was sick from a stomach flu that just wouldn’t quit.
I couldn’t leave my room without letting the clips from my mouth fall where they may and my throat was skinned away from the acid in my body and I was forced to master the art of the whisper.
High on cherry cough drops, I had not choice, but to lay in bed, wrapped in a five-layer blanket burrito, a trashcan by my side and my laptop balanced on a pillow that was perched on my stomach watching Pride and Prejudice. It was my “sick movie”. But, instead of thinking about all the class I was missing, or all the homework I had to do, or trying to keep down my soup, all I just kept thinking of was that Jane Austen was kind of a bitch. Now, I am not bitter, but why did men stop wearing top hats?
Sometimes, I feel that the feminist infected the gentleman till he hesitated to open the door for her. Now, most men today have all the romance of a red solo cup and the female empowerment of a rap song.