How Music is Ruining My Life

So lately I've been really into music (shut up, indie friends). I know most people at least say they're into music in general, but I, on the other hand, go through phases where I need to be listening to music constantly, phases that are sprinkled in across a pretty apathetic musical spectrum.
But the main problem is that I have exceptionally broad musical taste, i.e. my latest playlist features, among many others, Atmosphere, Sum 41, Blackstreet, Andrea Bocelli, Bad Brains, and the Original Broadway Cast of Gypsy.
Maybe it's weird, but if I'm happy, who cares, right?! Wrong. So wrong.

When I'm walking to class I, like many others, usually slip into autopilot mode, and the music that's playing on my iPod very evidently shapes my attitude, which, in turn, affects the way I operate within the world around me. This includes the way I carry myself in general, as well as how I interact with the people I meet along my way (aka bumped in my friend Anna, who is probably the sweetest looking creature on Earth, while listening to "I'd Rather Get Some Head" and felt so weird that I very blatantly avoided her).

See, now the problem really comes down to the fact that I often resurface from autopilot and think that I'm probably looking cool when I'm listening to something like DMX or Rage Against the Machine.

The thing is, I never look the way I think I do, especially when I think I look cool.

Every time in recent memory that a thought to the effect of "I bet I look cool right now" has entered my head, I know that I am completely screwed.
Why, you ask? Well, you see, photo evidence has made it painfully clear that whenever I think I look cool or attractive, I could not be more wrong.

Example 1:

The first time Shads and I bought a cigar, I thought "damn, two ladies smokin' a cigar, this is obviously hot."

Alas...

What I'd imagined:

"That's gonna be me. Sans hat though...not on that Jason Mraz shit."

My sad fuckin reality:


Example 2:

This summer Shadee, Courtlan, and I went up to Sacramento to stay with our friends Sheila and Shahriar, who we realize upon arrival are probably way out of our social league. But seeing as how they hadn't seemed to realize this yet, one day we were on their boat with possibly the sexiest group of people I've ever met, let alone spent a day sunburning in front of, and I distinctly remember feeling cooler and cooler as the day went on, as if their perfectly tanning complexions were suddenly my own and my hair was drying perfectly instead of like a ball fro.

Then, THEN, I see the photos. What I thought were going to be cherished proof that I was cool only confirmed that I'm a huge joke.


Look at my face. It's SO obvious I'm thinking "I'm cool AND hot."

Not to mention I'm like four feet from a Persian prince I only want to float away on the tube with, and of course with my artificial ego boost I'm undoubtedly staring suggestively at him making that fucking scary face.

Example 3:

Dancing.

This is the most relevant case related to my current anxiety. Though I do my best to shy away from cameras while jazz squaring, or whatever the fuck I'm attempting while dancing, various pictures have emerged over the years that showcase, once again, my painful reality.

First, let me explain what I always perceived my role on the dance floor to be. I usually silly dance because I'm like, "Alright, FINE, I guess I'll take it upon myself to lighten the mood and improve everyone's dance experience, IF I MUST (note: no one actually gives a shit, I'm just insecure)." And until recently I always assumed that I was being that funny/cool girl...

Nope.

Exhibit A, at a concert:

What...what the fuck is this? This is not a dance move, and is also why I'm single I think. I'm not even facing the same direction as the crowd.

Exhibit B, at a dinner/dance:
Readers, this is a photo I desperately untagged myself in multiple times, but it's just something you have to see in order to truly understand. I'm sorry.

She's a maaaaaniac, maaaaaaniac on the floor! ...heh. Anyone?

Shit.



Don't worry, that's the end of it, and here's the point:
Basically, as you can see, it's safe for me to assume that when I'm imagining myself swaggering charmingly to the beat of a song I think is badass, I am more than likely just flexing my neck and shooting the stink eye at people I know and love.
So if you see me on campus looking peculiar, please, for both our sakes, rip out my damn headphones.

Straight Pubbin'

This summer I've been working as a hostess/busboy at a British pub and, I'm pretty sure, experienced something resembling an existential crisis. My theory is that I began conflating the roles of hostess and busboy until I was just consistently confused.
Allow me to explain:
As a host one is expected to be the "face of the business," engaging customers and establishing an energetic, fun-loving environment.
But as a busboy, I quickly learned that people don't like you to be too human; it apparently makes customers uncomfortable when a small, white woman makes eye-contact while trying to snatch up the used toothpick rolling around the table (thanks for that, by the way. You couldn't just put it on the plate? And while I'm embracing this parenthetical experience, fuck anyone who manages to get fish and peas mashed into the booths--yes I mean you, elderlies. I know you know what you're doing, Father Time, I see you there drinking straight scotch and looking directly at me with your sneaky, old face).

Anyway, I started behaving very strangely a couple weeks into the job. I started doing things like staring at the ground and whispering "welcome" or "enjoy your meal" to customers I was seating, and then bellowing greetings as I cleared away dishes. I also formed habit of the slight bow and picked up a British accent for about three days, which my friend Chad offered may have been an instinctual move to survive in a foreign environment--when in the pub, do as the drunk Brits do.
But once I finally resolved my crisis and fell into a steady routine, my focus became my favorite night of the week: Quiz Night.
Quiz Night is a very surreal experience at first. It involves what I assume is literally every dad suspected of traveling on vacation with a fanny pack (you know the one) within a 40 mile radius, as well as some big-time ginger ale drinkers ('nuff said).
The ring leader, aka "the quiz guy," regularly touches my butt and subtly insults my hair, which is, you know, always cool.
The operation is entirely conducted by the quiz guy, who reads off trivia questions, which each team fills in their answers to and then trades with a neighboring table. The answers are then given and the teams scored after each of five rounds.
Now as you can imagine, there's a lot to take in during the two hours of quiz, including watching couples realize one another's inadequacies and heavily drink accordingly, or the interactions of the hip pub regulars and the socially lagging quiz-specific group.
But my favorite dynamic of all is easily that of the Quiz Night family. Specifically, I look out for the moment when the correct answer is revealed and the distinct look of utter parental disappointment surfaces with it. Their first-born son becomes a twenty-something-year-old mistake because he didn't know Andrew Jackson died of tubercular hemorrhaging.
I'm not sure I truly understood what it meant to "read a face" until the giant, miserable mug of one quiz dad very clearly read: "Yeah, laugh it off kids. Guess who's getting Encyclopedia Britannica for Christmas - you fuckers. And I know the shit I fished out of the jacuzzi is from one of you. Raccoon my ass."
Meanwhile the letdown can't seem to shove enough chocolate cake into his mouth to gently suffocate to death or at least please the senses and allow him to hold back the tears.

So yeah, obviously Quiz Night is hilarious.
Sure, it may seem sad, but like anything I think it really just depends how you look at it.

Powerpoints: exposing social ineptitude since 1984

So I'm in an introductory Persian class and today I had to give a presentation to the class on a topic of my choice. Your typical 5-7 minute language class presentation, powerpoint optional.

Since I have nothing interesting going for me besides the fact I'm taking Persian, which is irritatingly unoriginal in this setting, I consider talking about being from California. But not to worry, readers, it doesn't take me very long to realize I would just come off as a giant douchebag.

So instead of being "that guy," I decide to talk about the ladies: Court, Ween, and Shads--where they go to school, what their hobbies are, what we enjoy doing when we are all together, etc.

I also decide to flex my technology muscle and take the powerpoint route (fatal mistake). You see, in retrospect, I realized that my powerpoint came off as, well, unmistakably homoerotic.

The first message I manage to accidently convey is "no one will love us besides one another:"

Starting off with a vain attempt to introduce the girls in such a way so as to not come off as an annoying girl group, I have to assume my audience drew the subconscious conclusion that we are sexually confined within the group.

Now, let's take a look-see at the photo for the "Shadee joon" slide:

"It's not rape if you say 'surprise!'"

And, well, if that didn't plant the "there might be some butt sex going on" seed, I don't know what would. I'm not sure how I didn't realize that this photo being projected on a massive screen might be overwhelming.

Seeing as how distracting this all was, I have no idea what the class heard when I was speaking.

For example, Ween's slide:

Wow. Just realized the fact that we are hiking does not help the situation.

When Ween's slide was up, I attempted to brag about her scientific achievements:

But "dar lazma heeshgahyeh dars khonad. (She studies in a laboratory.)" was probably processed as "dar labzeereen hashereh dars khonad. (She studies in a labium.)"

Finally, Courtney:

...After all this build-up, just looks like a funny lesbian.

When all was said and done I did get a handful of "Your friends are babes!"-type comments, so I guess if the class thinks I'm a secret dyke, at least I'm big pimpin'.

A Soul Clipped Short

Today, dear readers, we will be tackling a question that has stumped scientists and philosophers alike. A mystery of our very universe, really.

There is no possible way to convey the shocking, terrifying reality of this phenomenon except, maybe, by visual means, so please brace yourself. (Viewer discretion is advised):

This is Billy Crystal in the 1970s.

This is a gonad.

a.k.a. Billy Crystal today.

Both natural and physical law tell us that this sort of rapid decline should not occur in any less than 300 years' time. So what's the deal?

Well, I've cracked the case. A dementor-like presence in Bill's life has been feeding off of what was once his joyous soul...

Crystal-blood-hungry dementor, thy name is Los Angeles Clippers.

But how did I come to this conclusion?

First of all, history shows us that direct contact with the Clippers results in visible decomposition. The sample pool, though small, is quite sufficient. The pool consists of the only other notable Clippers fan on Earth: Penny Marshall, a.k.a. "Laverne" from Laverne and Shirley.

Yep.

That image is so jarring to me that the only other point I can remember is that the Clippers infinitely suck. They suck general enjoyment out of life as well as, of course, at basketball.

All we can really do now is mourn the loss of Billy Crystal's soul at the hand of the worst team in the history of any sport.

Join me in warning others of his ghastly fate. Together we can save innocent souls.

Alright, just sit the fuck down.

Monumental Overcompensation

Everyday walking to and from class, I pass a small cemetery on campus, in which I can only assume some rich dudes who were important to IU are buried.

And everyday I seek out unsuspecting prey to pitch my favorite joke to:

"Hey, you know who's buried there?"

"No, who?" (Well, sometimes it's just a blank stare, or I just get completely snubbed, or they actually know the people who are buried, which is the worst.)

"Everybody."

Needless to say, it very rarely goes over well.

But anyway, I was let out of class early today and the typically bustling walkway next to the cemetery was deserted. Consequently, for the first time this year, I find myself with no enemies to make via comedic flop, and so I start examining the cemetery as it was really the only thing to look at.

This is when I realize the peculiarity of the headstones.

First of all, most of them are legitimately shaped like dicks. But on top of this, the more sexually unappealing the name sounds, the larger the monument happens to be.

Exhibit A, if you will:

Subtle, Binkley.

Would you fuck a guy named "Binkley"? No. De facto needle dick.

I mean I don't want to rub anyone the wrong way because for all I know things may have been hard for him. Maybe he had to hang out with a couple of nuts all day, I don't know. Maybe all he ever became was a working stiff. Maybe he had an asshole for a neighbor. Maybe he was, in the words of William Shakespeare, "every inch a king" but never brought to fruition!!!

Ok, I'm done.

But really. That little building behind the cemetery is a chapel, Binkley. Show some goddamn decency. This is no place for your unrealized giant stone dick fantasy.

I guess in reality, I'm just pissed he stole my plan.

Indie-ana University

Upon starting college I envisioned myself assimilating with fellow nerds (people who fist-pound in honor of mediocre puns, have the Star Wars Gangsta Rap lyrics committed to memory, etc.). Yet as I prepare for my second year, I look back and realize that not only did I not find anyone to glorify viral nerd vids with, but I somehow landed in the social group more foreign to me than any other: the indie crowd.

Even to this day, I'm pretty sure there's unspoken tension between myself and the bona fide hipsters. The good news is I think I've finally narrowed the source of the tension down to two possibilities: I can't pull off Levi's and/or I look like a pubescent Frankie Muniz in most photos.

Case in point. (Also, note my absurd little bangs which, despite the effort, do not disguise me as a hipster in the least.)

And as I learned throughout the course of my first year, being photogenic is vital in climbing the indie social ladder. There's strike one.

Returning back to my aforementioned Levi dilemma, let me start out by saying that buying jeans off eBay in general is a terrible, terrible idea. Alas, I find myself mid-year with brand new Levi's arriving in the mail. This is what happens:

Tim Allen with a FUPA.

'Nuff said. Strike two.

Strike three is the toxic combination of my favorite musician being Seal and the fact I don't understand abstract art at all.

The point is, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm probably just not cut out to be anywhere near what my college friends would call "hip," but as long as they're okay with that, so am I. I'm falling for the music, though, which may very well be a sign of things to come, a.k.a. if I start blogging about tambourines and feathers we can call it a successful infiltration.

But who really knows? Maybe Seal will become the next Morrissey.

He's photogenic, right?

Birthday Gifts Laden with Hidden Meaning? A Conspiracy Theory.

I know it's been a while, loyal followers (yes, all five of you), and I apologize for the downtime. But I'm back and ever-inspired to blog so here we go!

Alright, I turned 19 three days ago and received a gift package in the mail from my best friend Courtney. The theme of the package: "I blog, therefore I am."

Within this package was: A spiral notebook, comfort grip pencils, a personal fan, lip balm, oil absorbing facial sheets, portable toothpaste and flosser, and, finally...

A "gel keyboard wrist rest" a.k.a. a fucking dildo:

Don't even deny it, Courtney.

Alright, Court, I get the hint. Blogs are the cyber anti-poon... But has it really gotten to the point where I'm expected to masterbate with computer accessories?

Was this birthday package an attempt at reverse psychology, you cogsci little punk? Because if these are the essentials for a life of blogging (oil absorbing sheets and one giant blue phallus), I'm not sure I want any part of it.

As a self-identified "blogger" I have apparently been deemed a sweaty, unhygienic, sexually frustrated lump of mass by one who knows me best, so happy fricken birthday to me.

In other news, I also scored 12 books on worldwide genocide, money I will likely spend on more books, and the fixings for an acne-treatment regimen.

So, yeah, I sense someone's going to flower this year. Here's to the big 1-9!