Take 87 minutes to watch this beautiful movie.
http://vitamovie.com/movies/dumplings/
Monday, March 15, 2010
wait...
There's nothing more degrading than running for public transportation. Well, maybe there are a few things, but huffing it for a bus doesn't get you any cash in your g-string, or boners for your audience (usually). Some would say that the act of riding the bus itself is degrading, let alone breaking a sweat over it. I don't really mind, but I suppose I haven't really been around long enough to feel bad about not acquiring my own personal shame cart.
You're fully aware that the bus has the upper-hand in the relationship--often confusing you, making you wait around, follow its schedule. But you're human, and sometimes you forget that, for whatever reason, you took each shoe off in a separate room of the house. So there you are, letting out that throaty groan of frustration every so often until you find it and get your ass out the door.
You start doing some kind of math that you don't really understand once you lay eyes on the beefy monster. Like, how far away you are, how much time you think you have to get to it--really, just gauging whether or not you actually need to bring yourself to run. As you go over it in your mind, you figure it wouldn't hurt to pick up the pace so you walk with purpose until it transitions into a mom jeans, windbreaker-worthy power walk. The run starts when you know it's absolutely necessary, and even then you're aware that you may have started too late. If you've got stuff in your hands there's an added embarrassment, it makes your run look funny and probably slows you down--or you might drop it and reach entirely new levels of pathetic.
Whether they stop for you or not, it's a degrading scene. If they don't, there you are stranded with one arm out getting ditched by public transportation, while the punctual bastards in the back half look at you and smirk in a that's-a-shame kind of way. If the driver does stop for you it can go one of two ways: they're too sweet to make you feel bad about it and happily welcome you on, OR they act like you've really put them out and maybe make some smarmy comment about "the next time."
I suppose the reason it feels degrading in the moment is just because you're really only using this service to take you from A to B, so you can avoid real problems that come as a result of laziness or neglect. But when you can't even make the bus in time, that's when you really feel like shit.
You're fully aware that the bus has the upper-hand in the relationship--often confusing you, making you wait around, follow its schedule. But you're human, and sometimes you forget that, for whatever reason, you took each shoe off in a separate room of the house. So there you are, letting out that throaty groan of frustration every so often until you find it and get your ass out the door.
You start doing some kind of math that you don't really understand once you lay eyes on the beefy monster. Like, how far away you are, how much time you think you have to get to it--really, just gauging whether or not you actually need to bring yourself to run. As you go over it in your mind, you figure it wouldn't hurt to pick up the pace so you walk with purpose until it transitions into a mom jeans, windbreaker-worthy power walk. The run starts when you know it's absolutely necessary, and even then you're aware that you may have started too late. If you've got stuff in your hands there's an added embarrassment, it makes your run look funny and probably slows you down--or you might drop it and reach entirely new levels of pathetic.
Whether they stop for you or not, it's a degrading scene. If they don't, there you are stranded with one arm out getting ditched by public transportation, while the punctual bastards in the back half look at you and smirk in a that's-a-shame kind of way. If the driver does stop for you it can go one of two ways: they're too sweet to make you feel bad about it and happily welcome you on, OR they act like you've really put them out and maybe make some smarmy comment about "the next time."
I suppose the reason it feels degrading in the moment is just because you're really only using this service to take you from A to B, so you can avoid real problems that come as a result of laziness or neglect. But when you can't even make the bus in time, that's when you really feel like shit.
Monday, March 8, 2010
$1.50
It always feels good when you put a solid amount of time and effort into something you're trying to make perfect for the tight ass student teacher who you know is grading it, ultimately deciding your fate in a class of something like one million people. Some dinky one-page essay that you probably wouldn't think twice about if said grader hadn't wiped her ass with the last one you put in front of her.
So you spend this embarrassing amount of time devoting yourself to this tiny essay that is supposed to serve as some kind of proof of what you've learned--and of course, by "what you've learned," I mean how well you can follow the rules being applied to that stack of essays she's skimming over, looking for enough run-ons and misplaced thesis statements to meet her "hard grader" quota.
You don't even believe in grades, really, but you still like to think you're intelligent enough to get something higher than a C+ out of those who do.
But alas, you're worth nothing more than 79 percent, despite your efforts to give these motherfuckers everything they ask for in a short paper--some clear argument with evidence and examples up the ass, and transitions that could make angels weep. At this point, you don't know which number more depressing to look at--the 79, or the debt you're acquiring in order to see that 79.
It's such a great opportunity, though! And you should be grateful that you live in a country where you have the freedom to further your education. An education that you could probably get for "a dollar fifty in late charges at the public library..." as Will would say.
Unfortunately, the public library can't afford to hire anyone right now to tell you that you aren't good enough. Unless they raise those late charges a couple of thousand dollars a year...
So you spend this embarrassing amount of time devoting yourself to this tiny essay that is supposed to serve as some kind of proof of what you've learned--and of course, by "what you've learned," I mean how well you can follow the rules being applied to that stack of essays she's skimming over, looking for enough run-ons and misplaced thesis statements to meet her "hard grader" quota.
You don't even believe in grades, really, but you still like to think you're intelligent enough to get something higher than a C+ out of those who do.
But alas, you're worth nothing more than 79 percent, despite your efforts to give these motherfuckers everything they ask for in a short paper--some clear argument with evidence and examples up the ass, and transitions that could make angels weep. At this point, you don't know which number more depressing to look at--the 79, or the debt you're acquiring in order to see that 79.
It's such a great opportunity, though! And you should be grateful that you live in a country where you have the freedom to further your education. An education that you could probably get for "a dollar fifty in late charges at the public library..." as Will would say.
Unfortunately, the public library can't afford to hire anyone right now to tell you that you aren't good enough. Unless they raise those late charges a couple of thousand dollars a year...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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