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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Thursday, June 30, 2005

An Illustration of How Much I've Lost It

Chris (the boy) is working an insane number of hours as am I (I don't know if I've mentioned that 56,765 times on this site before). We've both kind of adopted this homeless person mentality wherein we fall asleep anywhere we can find wearing our ironically-named "street" clothes, then getting up and immediately returning back to the proverbial drawing board. Our house is an air condition-less wreck, we both fight a losing battle with perma-stench, and the refrigerator...oh lawdy don't even get me started about that (hint: smells like Grim Reaper breath...like the people, French cheese will turn on you like that [imagine be snapping my fingers and giving you a merciless scowl and maybe even a menacing finger-point if you like]).

How exhausted we both are (him MUCH more so than me) has turned into a comedic series of half-conversations that start out normal, but then end with out-of-nowhere questions like "do you think I suck at life? I mean, be honest here" (anyone who has to ask their significant other if they "suck at life" automatically does, that really should set you up for the climactic conclusion of this story) or it ends with hysterical laughter at something that isn't funny at all.

Today I was eating bread with cheese (as I am wont to do) and I found myself holding the bread more like a cigarette and less like a delicious semi-meal. For some reason, I thought that the image of someone smoking a piece of bread with cheese on it was funny. Not just funny, hilarious. Not just hilarious, so hilarious that a photo of that image needs to be taken just so the original hilarity of the idea can be relived at any moment of the day and shown to the boyfriend upon his arrival home. I mean, what's not TOTALLY HILARIOUS about that huh? HUH? 1 glorious nap later (after having a dream involving a friend from high school and shrapnel...I don't know either), I woke up to realize that the only thing lamer than thinking bread-smoking is funny is posting about it online, so here you go. I call this one: For God Sakes Take A Nap Woman!.

Monday, June 27, 2005

I'm not positive that I'm the only one that finds this amusing, but I am sure that I'm the only one who finds it funny enough to bookmark.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Your daily dose of funny.
(scroll up just a little to read the beginning)

Sponsored this week by our good friend Midas over at Haduken.

Give me a week people. I have a massive deadline due then, but after that, I'm all yours.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Congratulations A.J. and Amanda!

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Embarassing moment du jour:

I definitely cried a little while watching this sneak peak. Pull it together Chris, you're a soldjah.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

"You can tell any prospective students: Blalock's Beauty College has got your back"

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Unfunny Me

Do any of you computer-savvy people have any idea why 75 people per day would be actively searching for this image? Am I missing something? I mean, it's really not that funny. This image is that funny:

The Casey Jones Express...catch it.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

This One Contains A Lot of Family Guy References, Sorry

Last night I went to the first concert I've seen in almost two years...I know, that's lamer than FDR's legs, what? too soon? In an effort to stop my natural gravitation towards all things lame, this kid bought me tickets to see a the kind of band that everyone shows up with ducttape for (you know, because your face'll get rocked off...duh). And it did, seriously...consider my face officially rocked off. Here's a diagram:

What I learned from the show is this:

A) the only people who like the same bands I do are 14 year-old, poorly dressed girls
B) that concerns me surprisingly little
C) roadies are awesome.

I thought that I had a good job, doing my writing thing from French caf├ęs and such, but NO, roadies have the greatest job ever. After having several beverages with several of the glasses-wearing boys (and girl, no glasses) who worked the show (they were the only people my age who sincerely liked the band), I learned that roadies have the same basic stories I do, except in their stories, the words "100-square foot apartment," "by myself," and "because I'm a moron" are replaced by "shared a tour bus with Green Day for six months," "Motley Crue was there," and "locked a man in a wardrobe case and wheeled him into a crowd of Japanese teens. We thought 'someone's gonna die tonight' and we held our fists in the sky." Never before has anyone ever said anything so awesomely bad.

These kids were loud and crude and tattooed and rock to the max and it was love at first sight as I watched them debate whether they should try and split what's called 'a giraffe' of Guinness with two German girls they just met. I walked home alone in the cold, cold night and thought 'this is why they call it the city of Love.' Tonight I have a date with Weezer (I don't care if they're not cool anymore) and if all goes well, they'll be renaming it "the city of sweaty, up-all-night, smackin-that-ass, looooooove-makin with introverted rockstars." It could happen. Just let me have my dream.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Finding this web site made me think back to the summers of my youth...catching fireflies in jars at night...eating watermelon on a crisp summer day...attending a nearby college for taxidermy classes at 8:30 in the morning. I love that it says "Music! Painting! Taxidermy!" I'm not sure about you, but when I was in my preteens, no words were sweeter than "Bring your own fish." (check out the course catalogue here). In glancing through the other offerings, I bet that the kids taking the Pirates and Scalawags class are exponentially cooler than those learning about rubber stamping, but maybe embossing is all the rage in the Ages 10 and up crowd. I just can't keep up anymore.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

I have no idea about my family tree, but from way I've been acting this week, there's got to be some Jersey roots in there. The boyfriend is now in a culinary internship in what sounds like a delightful restaurant barring the fact that he works 75 hours a week for no pay. That makes me the breadwinner. Here I am after having won some bread:

Chris (the other one, now you can see why I just refer to him as 'the boyfriend') is a pretty capable guy and supposedly voluntary exploitation is a vital part of making it in the culinary industry. I'm a hard worker, it's one of my good points and I've pulled 75 hour weeks for little to no pay, but there's something about seeing someone you love do it that ignites some sort of ghetto fire from deep within my soul that quite frankly, I didn't really know existed. Chris comes home and tells me stories about wearily chopping vegetables and having people tell him to go faster and all I keep thinking is "oh no...oh no they just did-n't...don't even TELL me they did that sista...not to MY man they did-n't" [triple snap here]. When exactly I became a girl from the pro-jects or a star of anything on the UPN, I have no idea. Next time I hang out with Christina Aguilera, I'll have to ask her if she went through the same thing.

Friday, June 03, 2005

In the middle of having one of those "where is this relationship going?" talks, I turned around to find this:

Mattera calls this "stretching out my calves." And there's your answer.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

If I didn't check the site meter on this bad boy every day, I'd have no idea how many people were googling the phrases "Dylan Ratigan" and "Ejaculate on her face."

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

This is How Crushes Die

Toulouse, apparently the boot-scootin capital of France

When you are with someone for a long-ass time, it becomes easy(ier) to imagine that life on the other, more single side of the fence is sexier, more exciting, and filled with a lot less talk about things like vacuuming the apartment and do we really need more toilet paper because I thought there was an extra roll under the sink? As such, flash-in-the-pan mini-crushes are easy to develop and typically begin and end with something completely mundane in the depths of my mind. Here is an example of the shelf life of a mini-crush:

Heeeeeeeey, check out that kid over there...the one in the glasses with the t-shirt that says something in German and has a picture of cured ham on it...Look at the way that guy talks to his friend, patting the other guy on the shoulder....I bet that kid is sensitive, the kind of guy that would want to hold your hand in the subway and walk on the outside so you don't have to get splashed by traffic...He's probably intense in the bedroom, falling in love easily and taking his time...We'll probably just want to lay around afterwards, talking about things like love and astronomy and listening to the sound of rain outside his hilltop apartment in Switzerland...Oh shit, that kid picks his nose?...Oh FUCK no...There's NO WAY I'm laying around nude for hours staring up at the stucco patterns on the ceiling of a Swiss apartment and thinking about God and rock n' roll and whether an orgasm really is like an explosion with a nose-picker...ugh...I bet that guy is the kind of kid that thinks Febreeze is the same thing as doing aundry...that guy probably can't hold down a job because he's too busy digging for bodily gold all day...I'm sure he dropped out of high school in favor of a career in something like backyard wresteling and when he couldn't make it as Balthazar the Destroyer or whatever, he settled for a t-shirt with ham on it instead. I bet he asks his dates to be ring girls and I will NEVER wear a thong and parade around for pasty men in flannel chugging Olde English....whew, that was a close one.


The crushes come and go and by the end of it, I typically realize that I stay with the person I stay with for a reason (not picking his nose being one of them, a full repertoire of silly dances being another). Today I had to let a minicrush go the way of the fanny pack simply because he had stories ten times better than mine, and there's nothing I hate worse than being outdone. I've worked with inner city youth, well this kid has worked in a small village in Africa and mastered the language that only like 12 people in the world speak and lived there three different times....I think my dad is awesome because he hustled pool for a living for a long, long time, this kid's dad pretty much built a village for a lot of impoverished families in Brazil...wtf? Honestly.

The real clincher wasn't really being outdone or the slow and painful realization that my life has apparently been meaningless and distinctly unawesome, but just the fact that the kid genuinely was very sweet and sincere and humble about it. All I could do was think was that I had finally met someone who was actually too good a human being for me to hang out with, or even talk to. I just kind of stared at the kid in the way that you might look at someone who has been severely disfigured, trying to figure out what exactly separates your situation from theirs. In the end, the answer is always Very Little. Back on the prowl.