Sometimes life hands you beautiful beautiful things, and today on the bus I overheard two gangster-looking guys talking about how “middle school was the shit” because handjobs were still exciting.
The moment was still a little bittersweet, because I’m still annoyed no one wants my handjobs anymore. It’s like how we all used to spend a lot of time getting dizzy on purpose, but now it’s like no thanks I know what beer is.
I crush on people a lot because they vaguely resemble celebrities I have crushes on.
That might make sense for most people, but I realized the kinds of famous guys I’m interested in aren’t famous for their looks and this is a terrible idea.
I realized this when I let a guy who looked like Seth Rogen kiss me at a party. Also, someone who looks like Jemaine Clement is currently piquing my interest and I need to stop this.
I think people spend an inordinate amount of time and energy on the collection of something called a Seck.
Seck, as in “hold on, will you gimme a Seck” or “I haven’t had Secks in nearly four months.” It must be fun or satisfying somehow to own an amount of Secks, because of when women excitedly recount to other women that they “finally had Secks last night!” I assume something about having Secks must involve using or giving them away, because the dogged pursuit of the Seck often renews immediately after having them.
Despite all the credit orgasming women seem to give him, if there is a god, STDs are pretty good evidence he does’t want us having that much sex.
ME: Unemployed and thus too broke to date or entertain myself. Thought I was “too good” for FWB during previous period of employment and told him off. Poor foresight. Real friends are all employed and/or I have lied to them about having a job, thus can’t hang out with them during the day. No food allergies, modest DVD collection, Netflix subscription, easygoing personality, hate people who sing unprompted and/or have exciting travel stories.
YOU: Available during business hours. Not averse to pantslessness, spooning, or pantsless spooning. Don’t sing unprompted. Give good back rubs, or are at least open to constructive criticism. Will kill bugs, but let me try first. Creative cook (I have a potato, Top Ramen, some off-brand Pop Tarts and a whole mess of fruit flies… Any ideas?). Not averse to stealing small amounts of roommate’s food. Will allow me to blame a small, victimless crime on you (it’s been a while and roommate is asking questions). Leave when real friends come over and don’t tell them I have an Unemployment Companion. Defend me when roommate makes fun of me for having an Unemployment Companion, and/or being unemployed. Listen patiently when I feel like venting about roommate. Open to physical possibilities (pending chemistry, etc.), but won’t fall in love with roommate like fucking everybody else. Will look up to me and give me the feeling I’ve got something to teach you, like you are in awe of my wisdom and life experience and just want to listen most of the time and let me hold you, but also hold me because I can’t always be everyone’s rock. Previous experience a bonus.
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.”
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.
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.)
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:
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
I’m afraid people not taking me seriously when I try to dress a little sexy. For instance, the stares I got in the office with my studded bustier sort of made me want to say, like, helloo, my eyes are up here. Under this leather hood.
Men, right?
Does anyone else get these weird bursts of indoorsy suburban child angst?— I just want to build something, like hammer some nails into some wood and make a cool thing I can put my hands on my hips and nod to people next to. And be like naw, it wasn’t that hard, what with my earthy inclinations.
This urge comes up often, but passes pretty quickly. I should probably go climb a tree. Or, you know, take a nap.
There’s something uniquely hilarious about watching it pull up to your stop and it’s packed so full of people that they stare at you wide-eyed, stuffed up against the front windows, silently pleading in unison for you to please not get on this one. They’re squished inhumanely as it is, standing hip to hip and back to front and armpit to miserable face, trying somehow to ignore each other. They’re all wordlessly begging you not to board, but you always will because there’s no way in hell you’re waiting another 15-20 minutes in the false hope that the next will be comfortable. This is how it goes. You get on and didn’t just imagine someone touching your butt - everyone is touching everybody’s butts.
I was standing on one of these rush hour sadness tanks this afternoon, pressed up against a mysterious trash bag full of what felt a lot like trash and a small man who is probably a nice person but whose face I still really wanted out of my shoulder blades. There were several couples snuggling on this particular ride. I sit there and do my best not to look at any of them while I got more and more intimate with someone’s stupid bag of trash.
There was a tiny old Mexican woman sitting in the seat in front of me, chatting to someone next to her, who was suddenly shoved roughly right in the face by a bystander’s backpack. I was horrified, but she just blinked a couple times and sort of waved it away and kept talking. The owner of the backpack, a super tall middle-aged blonde lady, had no clue, obliviously jerking around trying to read street signs outside.
I watched her backpack near-miss the older woman’s head a couple breathtaking times as she kept resiliently pretending this wasn’t happening, but it made contact again and the older woman had to duck away. I couldn’t picture telling this story to someone and having it end with “yeah, so I just watched this lady accidentally beat up this old woman and didn’t say anything,” so I tapped the enormous blonde lady on the shoulder. I barely got out “your backpack, um” and gestured at the older woman, when I froze - I suddenly found it very hard to say “ma’am, you keep whacking her in the face.”
“WHAT?” the blonde lady who could only yell and not understand gestures responded. The old Mexican lady froze, completely embarrassed, staring straight ahead at neither of us.
“Um…” The dozen people in our personal space got quiet, too.
“IS IT OPEN?!” She pulled her backpack around to her front, whooshing right by the stony Mexican woman who I think hated me for doing this to everyone.
“No, you… It’s bumping her in her… face.”
A fast realization came into her eyes, and she was very embarrassed, too. “I’M GETTING OFF NOW! IS THIS LA BREA?!” She unfolded a Razor scooter from the floor somewhere (…yeah) and, panicked, tore back to the exit.
Chatter slowly returned to our corner of the horriblemobile and, somehow just having humiliated everybody, I retreated to the bag of trash. My only friend.
There are no heroes in public transportation.
Real Flashy-Rich Childish Middle Aged Ladies And Their Superhuman Stamina For Bickering of New York City: I don’t know why I ever watch anything else.
Are online tech support names like stripper names? Fake ones picked to make customers feel a certain way, I mean. I want to know if using Paul R.’s name when I’m talking to him to try to humanize our support-customer relationship actually psychologically distances the two of us instead of bringing us closer together.
It would maybe help explain why he is being such a dick.
