There are a few things I find myself doing, and/or wanting to do as I become more age-adult day by day:
1) I cuss a whole lot more. I mean let's be honest here, I don't want to sound like a naive 14 year old Mormon girl saying, "Holy buckets Peter." So instead I become foul.
2) My want of a boob job increases exponentially by the week. Again, only 14 year olds have a chest as flat as mine.
3) Hating Provo has become permanent. Either people are getting younger, I am getting older, or it really is God's way to punish the Not-So-Molly-Mormon.
4) My seething toward twenty year old girls intensifies. Not only do they have their high school bodies, but they have the twenty five plus guys taking them out. Damn them all.
This is just a little taste to the reflections and ambitions of my ever-aging black heart.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Hubcaps and Trailorparks
Hubcaps hate me. Not only have I spent over $150 on hubcabs in the matter of three weeks, but now I am down to two...one actually on my wheel and one in my backseat, broken. Let's face it: MY CAR IS WHITE TRASH!! Not only has it been raped, by being stolen by some punk kid, I am sure, but now it has one shiny hubcap spinning it's way to the top of the dean's list of the "What the Hell are You Driving?" Club.
Violated. I have been violated. Not only by the forced relationship my car, Gem, had with her thief, but violated on the grounds that I can't look anything but trashy on the road. I consider myself to be respectable and even, dare I say, not socially awkward, even fashionable at times. When I get into my car, later Snit, and hello Stella, the nail lady missing teeth and hair two sizes bigger than her head living in the trailorpark.
Just call me Stella.
Violated. I have been violated. Not only by the forced relationship my car, Gem, had with her thief, but violated on the grounds that I can't look anything but trashy on the road. I consider myself to be respectable and even, dare I say, not socially awkward, even fashionable at times. When I get into my car, later Snit, and hello Stella, the nail lady missing teeth and hair two sizes bigger than her head living in the trailorpark.
Just call me Stella.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Number 1 or Number 2?
I had to pee today before one of my classes, so I walked into the women's (because believe it or not, I have a vagina) restroom and the stalls were occupied minus one: the handicap stall. I took a step forward then hesitated, was there something wrong with the toilet? No toilet paper? Pee on the seat?
In a discussion my roomie and I had, she conveyed that it was a moral consciousness that was coming into play here. "You don't park in handicap spaces. What if a handicap person needed to use it?" She also said that it is so big you feel like someone can bust in on you easier.
I agree that "doing your business" is much more. . . pleasant, if you will, when in a more confind space (why this is, only the gods can say). However, I believe the reason many of us shy away from the handicap stall is the stigma that will suddenly attach to us as and follow us around like toilet paper stuck to our shoes. That stigma is: if I use the handicap stall, I will hereby be named deficient in some way to induce the title of "handicap" to me formally, and never will I regain my non-handicapness.
The same principle applies to visiting with a mental health professional/therapist. Why do people, who need some sort of help, (admit it honey, you need it just as much as the next guy) feel like they shouldn't because all of a sudden they are labeled as "crazy." And let's face it, nobody wants that label. People are afraid of what others will think about them, whether they just really have to urinate or whether they are slap-you-on-the-bum-and-not-moving depressed, they will avoid the labels and stigma associated.
We all have an involuntary brain cognitive function that judges a new person in less than 1 second and neatly places them into a preconceived category. It takes a lot to get that person out of one category and into another, so shoot, I say if you are gonna piss your pants walk into that handicap stall proudly, unzip and let 'er rip. If you are depressed or just need an objective view on your life, make an appointment to see me in a couple years. . .(please get help in the mean time).
Moral of the story: When you got to unload, do it wherever and by whatever means necessary.
In a discussion my roomie and I had, she conveyed that it was a moral consciousness that was coming into play here. "You don't park in handicap spaces. What if a handicap person needed to use it?" She also said that it is so big you feel like someone can bust in on you easier.
I agree that "doing your business" is much more. . . pleasant, if you will, when in a more confind space (why this is, only the gods can say). However, I believe the reason many of us shy away from the handicap stall is the stigma that will suddenly attach to us as and follow us around like toilet paper stuck to our shoes. That stigma is: if I use the handicap stall, I will hereby be named deficient in some way to induce the title of "handicap" to me formally, and never will I regain my non-handicapness.
The same principle applies to visiting with a mental health professional/therapist. Why do people, who need some sort of help, (admit it honey, you need it just as much as the next guy) feel like they shouldn't because all of a sudden they are labeled as "crazy." And let's face it, nobody wants that label. People are afraid of what others will think about them, whether they just really have to urinate or whether they are slap-you-on-the-bum-and-not-moving depressed, they will avoid the labels and stigma associated.
We all have an involuntary brain cognitive function that judges a new person in less than 1 second and neatly places them into a preconceived category. It takes a lot to get that person out of one category and into another, so shoot, I say if you are gonna piss your pants walk into that handicap stall proudly, unzip and let 'er rip. If you are depressed or just need an objective view on your life, make an appointment to see me in a couple years. . .(please get help in the mean time).
Moral of the story: When you got to unload, do it wherever and by whatever means necessary.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The Subconscious: The Only Way I Get Any
My roomie said, "That's wonderful" in a very flirty and inviting way in her sleep last night. My question really is what was she dreaming about and how do I get one?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
