Write Down

Or Something

Guys don’t seem to understand why someone making a kissy-noise from a passing car or saying “what’s uuuup” directly to your butt feels really shitty. Like, it’s a compliment! A stranger just called you sexy! You and your butt can say thanks, or not, and move on with walking around feeling fine (foiiiine). It’s never helped me make my case to try to physical-compliment them into submission, either. Most guys are thrilled and/or tickled to have their junk talked to. 

When I get the chance, I assure whoever will listen that it does suck. It’s yicky. I feel simultaneously unsafe and like they managed to take something from me that I didn’t decide to give them (detailed memories of my ass).

But after I get all Preachy McSelfEsteem, I remember that before I heard these things, or when I haven’t heard them in a while, I get all upset. Cat calls really do feel gross, but there’s another part of me that really wants them. When I first heard someone complain about being hollered at and I hadn’t ever been, it became a yardstick of attractiveness and I was jealous.

Though I don’t at all take back what I said about it feeling horrible. Like there’s a delicate tipping point between gripping my pepper spray, hating dudes everywhere, and “ARE MY BOOBS INVISIBLE BECAUSE I AM LIKE SIX IGNORED HOURS AWAY FROM GETTING NAKED IN A STARBUCKS, OR SOMETHING.”

Teach Me

My friend was telling me about how she likes a guy, but she really wants to be his girlfriend so she can teach him how to dress himself, arrange his furniture, make his bed, smell good, etc. 

I never realized til this moment, but… I think I need a girlfriend.

Aw Snap

College students put up with a lot of things that most adults don’t: food-wise, roommate-wise, easily-avoidable-day-long-hangover-wise.

To try to avoid sharing a room last year, because I decided I was over other people’s boobs but was still working within modest financial limitations, I lived in what used to literally be a coat room.  It was so small, it was one broom away from being a broom closet. I wouldn’t let the cat come in because then it’d be crowded.  It was so small, it’s not technically considered a planet anymore. It still sat up and paid attention during Enzyte commercials, if you know what I mean.  (What I mean is it was really really small.)  

In Case You Haven’t Heard

http://www.campusbasement.com/member/403

I just posted a new Campus Basement article! There are over forty others to peruse if that one doesn’t light your fire. Something in there has to.

Here’s another real cool person:

http://www.campusbasement.com/member/413

Checking In

I decided to give in to telling the internet where I am at all times, since Facebook adopted a Foursquare-style location checking in thing. Now, when I post anything, I can include where I am and who I was with.

I’m excited for people to think “oh, Leah Folta is at her house again, how about that. And by herself!” or “that Leah Folta sure does go to Ralph’s about once a week. And by herself!” or “Leah Folta is gone for the weekend, now would be a good time to rob her.” If I ever forget to include where I am, for future reference, it is most likely a mundane USC-area place. And by myself!

I propose to the people at Facebook (who I picture as cheerily-designed but untrustworthy robots) that we also get buttons for other details – to start, who I WISH was with me, how hungry I am, what song I have stuck in my head, what I’m wearing (including a “[giggle] what are you wearing” option), how badly I need attention at that particular moment, and how lonely I honestly feel.

Hopefully with all these details out there constantly, someone will slowly fall in love with me and there will be somebody to accompany me to Ralph’s once in a while.  

There, I Wrote Something

A friend told me recently they’ve got a huge problem procrastinating, like they just can’t get motivated to get anything done, and then feel horrible about themselves because of that, and it’s this endless vicious cycle and blah blah blah.

I want to be a good friend in this situation, so I thought about it and told them what I usually do when I’m procrastinating and have writers’ block – I’ll give myself a little bit of time to do whatever I want. Just indulge that part of me that wants to screw around and get more-fun less-important things done, to get it out of my system (which most recently translated to learning I have a DVR and watching three and a half hours of South Park reruns).

By then I’ll finally be fed up enough with me to force myself onto the computer, open a Word document, notice a tab from yesterday with something I didn’t finish reading, realize it’s late, lower my expectations for what I’m going to get done, realize I just somehow spent another several hours in a winding free-association Youtube adventure that probably enriched me as a person even if it had nothing to do with this particular assignment, I reason. At this point I choose between sleeping at all and maybe getting anything done, but pulling an all-nighter every once in a while reminds me that I’m alive and I’m young enough to rebound fairly quickly so I might as well live it up.

In conclusion, I recommended a caffeine habit and a more relaxed attitude toward traditional grades, because, really, what can you do. 

Do you ever get those tasks at work that are so inane you can’t even figure out how to mess them up so you’re not asked to do them again?

It’s like some ancient Greek version of hell that includes sorting paper clips or quality checking brochures, and you got sent there for smiling and nodding. 

Stupid

Playing ten fingers is the worst. You start out feeling horrible when you first play that game in middle school or whatever because you’re somehow the lame stuckup prude when you discover it, and you feel like you’re just there so Lauren can pretend she doesn’t want to show off that handjob she gave on the bus last year and impress whatever dudes came to this party, which you now hate.

I realized recently, though, the equally-sucking flip side grown-up sequel to ten fingers: the game – there’s a turning point where you understand what the word “secret” actually means, as in don’t want to giggle about it with a large circle of people and aren’t you all adults and, you know, shut up, so you lie about everything anyways and still manage to come off boring. Lauren is still sexy and interesting. 

Part of me will remember college as that period of time where I tried to put cheap hot sauce on everything and none of it was a good idea.

“About Me”

“I don’t play games” translates to “I’m going to get bored when you don’t play games and suddenly become very good at them.”

“You either love me or hate me” really means “there is a 100% chance you will hate me at some point, and I do not accept any responsibility for this.”