rom-com afternoon

I’ve been thinking about romantic comedies a lot lately. Haven’t you? I hope not. Also, I was lying—most days I pretend they don’t exist, and you should too. However, today I really did manage to think about rom-coms for a solid 20 minutes or so. It was exhausting, pointless, and embarrassing; kind of like watching a romantic comedy. Anyway, I challenged myself to think of a shitty title and equally shitty storyline for 3 romantic comedies in 3 minutes. Soon I realized more time would be necessary and I requested an extension, which I then approved.

Here’s what I came up with:

Let Your Love Grow

A tree-hugging hippie environmentalist chick (i.e., a tiny recycling tank top and wavy yet flawless hair) straps herself to a tree to protest some kind of logging operation we’re all supposed to care about. Despite her green beliefs, she seems to be falling for the rugged, handsome, charming lumberjack who makes continuous attempts to coax her down. Can the two of them settle their differences for love?

Call Me

Two strangers connect on a plane ride, though both are involved in relationships . When the plane lands they go their separate ways, each without realizing they grabbed the other’s identical iPhone! Madness ensues as they spend a week in NYC with each other’s phones.

Shout Out Love

Guy falls for Tourette’s Syndrome hottie.

I suppose that's it until next time.

secret crush: papa pleasure

Pa Ingalls, we swooned over you via TBS in summers passed, when they used to play back to back episodes of Little House in the mornings. Needless to say, it wasn't the summer heat that had me sweating. But to our great disappointment, we learned from the wannabe-seductive-bitch-of-a-town-widow that Charles Ingalls is as faithful to his wife as he is to sporting that patch of golden-brown chest perfection; and therein lies the problem.

Don't you worry Pa, that one neglected button says enough.

pseudo happy

There’s this group of people out there who’s bodies seem to serve as a vessel for absolute happiness. They’re everywhere—that group of attractive religious girls from your high school, or people who are so busy with extracurricular activities and family vacations to have time for unhappiness. Really, just people who seem to be so content with their lives that there are no times of true darkness for them. Usually their sense of humor is pretty bad, and they tell a lot of stories that go no where and leave you bewildered as to why they’re laughing so hard. Of course there are things that bring them down occasionally, they’re still humans, but it’s in more of more of a “shit happens” kind of way, rather than an “I’m shit” way. But to those of us who think we’re shit sometimes, it really can seem like these happy types are living on another planet that we may convince ourselves we want to live on too someday.

Like they’re all on the same Royal Caribbean cruise ship together, gliding along the surface of what is underneath them—an ocean full of asshole dolphins fooling people into thinking they’re great, manatees who probably hate their bodies, entire societies of krill being destroyed left and right by giants. A little far-fetched, maybe. But for those of us who have come to terms with the things we don’t enjoy about ourselves; anxieties, insecurities, whatever--sometimes it feels like we’re trailing behind that cruise ship in some shitty aluminum boat we bought off of craigslist, unsure of whether or not we got swindled by that creep who sold it to us, worrying if the thing is going to fall apart, uncomfortable about all the wet sand in the bottom. Though this boat is obviously far less jubilant, I personally know I would be vomiting off the side of that cruise ship, and I don’t get seasick. While we all seem to be striving for happiness and success (isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?), that cruise ship is not it, but sometimes if you’re not careful the patrons of the Royal Caribbean can make you feel like it is. You think “I want that”—that carefree bliss they have—but it’s the shitty reality of the aluminum boat that makes for true times of happiness when they come. And when they go, and they will most of the time, you know the ins and outs of that aluminum piece of shit and you can reluctantly get it started. Cruise ship happiness isn’t real, and it’s not something you want. You’d be better off spending that money on countless 5ths of rum and bags of Pirate’s Booty.

yester yes

the list

Many of us go over this list in casual conversation at various times throughout our lives, often revising it upon new shoulder-to-ear worthy discoveries. Some are nouns, some adjectives, verbs--just words, really, that may or may not be repulsive in meaning, but they all share one common feature; they sound gross. Not everyone will agree with what they're about to see--please, feel free to make the necessary adjustments to your list at home.

(in no particular order, except for the first one...)

moist
ointment
wad
tender
crusty
supple
wipe
lard
runny
damp
creamy
panties
fester
plump
smear
warm
juices (juice, juicy not included. only juices.)
churn
gullet
flap
sift
veal
yeast
thigh

money money money

if only things were this simple, J.G.




but i suppose this strategy is worth a try.

room

There is one question I'm asked just about every single day, and I would be fine with that--I might even appreciate it--if I thought my answer actually meant something to the seemingly 'with it' barista doing the asking:

Do I want room for cream?

Now, I know that want cream, without a doubt. I also know that I want the most for my money-- if I'm paying for a 12oz. cup, I want 12 ounces of liquid. The mystery lies in the room leaver's judgment of how much "room" should be left, and this is where things start getting out of control. Before I go on, I would like to note that I am aware of how trivial this is. Good, it's nice to have that out of the way.

Something must be done about the room. I'm sick of answering this question and never knowing what I'm going to get back. I like my coffee with cream and not the other way around, and I think this is true for most drinkers. For this reason, I usually reply with a "no, thanks" or I say "just a smidge" or something stupid like that, holding up my fingers and giving some kind of visual representation of what a smidge might be.

Here's what it isn't: 1/3 my cup of coffee. When I'm handed the sad-looking paper cup after embarrassing myself with the whole smidge act, I'm wondering how much they leave for the people who just say "yes" to the dreaded question. I'm thinking I'll just retire from doing anything that implies I want room, it's too risky and I'm usually disappointed.

However, while the "no" response often produces a suitable amount of room, I'm still getting the occasional balance master who gives me a brimming cup of lava that usually gets all over my hand as I try to choke it down by the trash can until it is at an appropriate level for creamin'. And then there's the tension between the barista and me as I inquire of the half & half, looking at me like "no room, huh?"

Put your right index finger in front of your face and point to the left, or vice-versa. Most people have this finger, and probably a lot of baristas have this finger. THIS, people-- the girth of the index finger (left or right) should be the universal size of the room we are so often asked about, and no more. If we can't all agree on an appropriate standard of cream allotment, we have officially failed as a caffeinated people.

That is all.

Dumplings (2004)

Take 87 minutes to watch this beautiful movie.

http://vitamovie.com/movies/dumplings/

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.

$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...