1 min 30 seconds in. Footage that makes Beyonce look like the hottest terrorist interrogator. Like, "Tell me where the IUDs are before I get all Sasha Fierce on yo' ass!" The guys in the blue falcon hoods* are there purely just so the gyrating on the guns make sense.
*I have been waiting so long to use that legitimately, Robyn.
"The Wreckoning" Comedy, sitcom (2009) Burdened by the failure of her 'unrelationship,' Stephanie (Stephanie Sparer) tries to win back her confidence by skipping Biology to sit in a Starbucks in the hopes of talking to a barista. Also starring: Ally Paul, Robyn Keith, Guest starring: Barista Boy as Barista Boy. (CC, Letterbox) Press select to record this showing.
Yesterday, Erica and I went to Starbucks to visit Barista Boy. She warns me she might laugh. I warn her that she might be mildly disappointed. That's usually what happens when a friend talks up some guy they're interested in. You finally see a photo of them or something and you go, "Oh. Yeah. They're... cute?" When we walk in Erica laughs, "Oh my God, I totally know who you're talking about." "Yeah, well," I say, "He basically looks like every guy I have ever liked."
I had Expectations. Here's how Operation: Talk to Barista went.
Expectations: Me: Hi, I'm sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any non-fat milk (because I dumped it all out in the trash). Do you have any?
Him: Uh. Yeah.
Me: Thanks. You know, I see you around campus a lot (brooding, wearing your weird OJ Simpson Ski cap, wearing all black and being generally alluring and pretentious in your big ass glasses). I'm Stephanie.
Him: Uh, I see you around a lot too (you always entice me with your adorable outfits that you carefully pick out even if it makes you late for class.) I'm INSERT NAME HERE.
First World Problems, a friend once called them, which was both scary and funny but also true and I thought about how my room doesn't look like a Pottery Barn catalogue and how I don't look like Lindsay Lohan and how my college professors hate me, probably, and how I want a Mercedes, or at the very least a BMW, but I only have six thousand dollars in my checking, and then I hyperventilated and I died. Right then and there in aisle seven between the Goldfish and the Triscuits in, of all places, a supermarket in California.
But, here's what happened. I went to go sit down and this girl goes, "This seat's taken." Sure.
This is what she said to me last time, but what she meant was, 'Actually, I don't like putting my bag on the floor so I put it on this chair. You can't sit here.' Well, fuck her. "Oh," I say, "It's taken?" Imagine this in the bitchiest tone possible that I can muster. "Yeah," she says, matching my bitchy tone and placing her hand protectively over her bag, "It's taken." I roll my eyes in the same exaggerated way my six year old cousin Mateo rolls his eyes. "OK," I say. "OK." I move over two seats next to a woman who doesn't look unlike Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she blows up into a big blueberry. The stench coming from her was incredible. I debate for a good thirty seconds whether or not I could get used to it. I decide I can't. I start talking to myself like a crazy person. "I don't know if I can see from this angle..." I say aloud to myself but more for the stinky girl's benefit so that I didn't offend her when I moved. I move two seats away and settle in between a boy with braces and a girl in a hoody. I'm not there more than thirty seconds before Hoody turns and coughs on me.
I practically have a seizure. My eyes roll back into my head like a great white shark's when it's making its kill. My hands go into this odd Edward Scissorhands pose and I arch myself backwards. I stop breathing. I decide I cannot hold my breath for an hour and a half. I then make the executive decision to leave bio class. I moved three times. Obviously God did not want me in class today.
He wanted me at Starbucks.
No, obviously he must have. You see, for two weeks I have been saying, "I'm going to talk to that barista I keep not talking to." "I'll shake you if you don't," Leanne says over the phone a couple days ago. "I will do it and then you will die." "That only works on babies," I tell her, but she's kind of drunk so the conversation turns into a discussion about mashed potatoes somehow. "MMmmmm," she sighs, "I want to lick gravy from a Styrofoam container like a lady!"
"Keep your sunglasses on when you talk to him," Joe tells me when I run into him before entering the on-campus Starbucks location and I casually mention how I haven't talked to the barista yet. "He'll think you're a badass." "He'll think I'm an asshole," I argue, "Or Jack Nickelson." "Yeah, it's easy to get you two confused," he agrees. "Fuck you," I say. "I would never let Roman Polanski into my home while I was away." He smirks, "And that's probably the only difference between the two of you." I give him the finger in response and he "catches it" and mimes putting it into his pocket for later. "It's not hard to say hi," he shrugs.
No, it totally is. I've talked to this kid before, but only because it's part of the "Starbucks experience," I have to give my drink order. But I've never just had a conversation with this guy outside of, "How do you spell 'Stephanie'?" And you know what? That's perfect because it means we're at a point in our relationship where neither of us has said anything dumb, neither of us has made an ass out of ourselves, and neither of us feel like complete morons. Also, we never fight. Also, as you can see, we're in the third month of our non-relationship where he makes me tea almost every other day.
Save for the balding kid from my Bio class who also seems to be ditching, I am the only person in the Starbucks. I ordered my Earl Grey and sat myself down with my Biology book (I'm Jewish. I felt guilty.). I may have sat directly in his eye line. This may have been on purpose because I may have been wearing really cute red tights with a mini skirt and heals and I may have thought that putting them to use was a good idea.
Well, wouldn't you know he had to sweep the whole store that I saw some girl sweeping twenty minutes ago when I first passed the Starbucks on the way to class? He comes over to my table and sweeps around it for no reason. I look up. He smiles and says, "Hi." "Hi," I say back and smile and then look back down at my Biology and he scurries away like a bunny who heard a gunshot.
Then, I text everyone I know.
On Thursday, I plan on getting a name. This shit is getting heavy like it weighs a ton, people.
Oh, also, if you know me, I am available to reenact this exchange for you. I just need at least two hours advance for booking.
Oh, also, if this post disappears its because I friended the guy on Facebook.
Ally: I want a big old fashioned band to play at my wedding
Stephanie: someone, something, and their orchestra?
Ally: I want my wedding to sound like 1942. Sweet ass clarinet solos.
Stephanie: You think this sound is sweet? Well this next tune is gonna really blow your fucking mind once I get my clarinet solo on, you bitch ass party motherfuckers.
Ally: I'm gonna play the shit out of Moonglow so much that I'll make Tommy Dorsey look like a fucking pussy.
Stephanie: Fuck yeah, motherfuckers. We're gonna fuck this shit up with some 3/4 time.
Ally: Yeah because we know how to rock some fucking rueful, romantic melodies.
Moms, Your pre-teen daughter can’t decide what slutty costume to wear on Halloween? Here, let me help you guys out;
Be a Young Future Slut of America! This costume is great because its so indeterminable that your little one can say they are a "Housewife of *insert your town here*" or Hannah Montana or Britney Spears Post comeback or a Jewish mother at her kid's Bnai Mitzvah or, just plain ol' slutty. Its like five costumes in one! Plus, that gold mini with the animal print top is very in this season (if you're a slut- and I know you are!).
Be a Slutty Version of a Beloved Storybook Character! What little girl didn't want to go as Slutty Dorothy or Slutty Tin Man or Slutty Alice in Wonderland or Slutty Little Red Riding Hood? Get your ten year old on the Slut Train (next stop: Fifteenandpregnantville) early! Get her used to wearing short skirts and tight corsets now before she actually develops, that way its easier for her to adjust when she has to wear the same costume ten years later, but this time with a push up bra and less underwear, in order to pick up a dude.
Be a Future Emo Slut! Is your daughter dark and moody? Does she like oh my gawd totally LOVE Robert Pattinson? Then like, this is like, the costume for her. The sleeves are long too which is perfect because your daughter is cutting herself on a regular basis while listening to Owl City (she's too young to know that its derivative of The Postal Service and even they aren't that good and that really, all the cool kids are cutting themselves to the Twilight soundtrack now anyway) and she needs to hide those arms.
A Slutty Dominatrix/Prostitute Question: Moms, what's sexier than dressing up your seven year old like a prostitute? Answer: Dressing her up like a prostitute who's also a dominatrix! Turn pedophiles' heads in a short mini skirt and sexxxy lace up boots. Complete the look with way too much make up and you have a sexed up, emotionally distressed winner!
Slutty Versions of Ally Paul and Stephanie Sparer! There's nothing sexier than taking the two least slutty and most pretentious people in the world and turning them into slutty pre-teen costumes. Nothing! All the rage for fucking fall, motherfuckers. The Slutty Ally Paul and Stephanie Sparer costumes are best worn at a party where they don't drink or talk to anyone, but instead judge silently from a corner.
You: Pretentious. Glasses. Chucks. Also, tattoos, but I am beginning to wonder if I can live with that. I heard you talking. You were referencing more films than Diablo Cody could fit into three minutes of dialogue. It was impressive. Then you had a Keats reference. Well, that did it for me, you pretentious asshole, you. You were sitting with some girl as I did homework, and by 'do homework' I mean eavesdropping. That shit was on. Dita von Tease was all over you and you were like, Jean-Luc Godard this, Wes Anderson that, and not having it with her. She said something really untoward and dumb at some point, I believe she used the word "retarded" and "gay" in the same sentence in regards to poetry and I brought my head up and we made eye contact. If you could see our thought bubbles, and I could, I'm pretty positive they both said, "Kill yourself." Then she made some remark about how she wanted to "take you right now," and you responded with, "I have to go to class." Is this thing with Dita von Tease goin' anywhere or not? Let's turn this shit into a Fellini film. E-mail me if you see this.
Mom: What are you doing for Halloween? Me: Well, on Saturday, I am going as Summer Finn in my blue dress, but Friday I am going as John Wilkes Booth in my bowler hat, shorts and boots and Robyn has a mustache and a Confederate flag for me. She's going as Lincoln. Mom: John Wilkes Booth wouldn't wear shorts. Me: He would if he were sexy. Mom: Oh...
Sometimes, things get tough. And not for any real reason. I mean, everything is relative, so it really bugs me when I overhear people venting and someone says to them, "It's not like you're dying or anything." I feel like jumping in with, "Have you ever had a panic attack?" You might as well be dying when that happens.
For me, I'm lucky, I have my moments, and then I calm myself down, and I move on. There's no Facebook status announcing anything about my boring life. There's no vague Tweet desperate for people to ask me what's going on. "The internet," as Ally Paul once said in her famous sermon Facebook Status Upon a Hill, "is for sending virtual cupcakes, not for posting the deep, dark secrets of your miserable soul."
Today I took my frustration (school. no money. pms. oh hai dry skin/hair.) out on my closet, which I seem to have to clean at least once a week. Then I actually did all of my homework. It made me sick to be so productive. I'd say just to counter it I won't go to English class tomorrow, but my teacher already canceled it, so I'll even be sleeping in legitimately tomorrow. Damn. All I wanna do is act out and rebel.
On The MediKiller (Trademark) & BFFs in Med School
From: Stephanie Sparer Subject: When I was in Harvard, I smoked weed everyday Date: October 26, 2009 11:20:13 AM MST To: Alexandra Paul
One person claims to be "actually, kind of surprised" that six people were, perhaps, intentionally poisoned at Harvard Medical School. I don't see how they could be surprised. Poisoning is pretty Shakespearian and old school. This would never happen at ASU. Someone would just pop a cap in their ass or a roofie in their drink. Anyway, I think they were looking for Natalie Portman.
Be careful doing all your med-school things. With this Yale Med School killing thing earlier in the year and now Harvard (and next I assume Penn State), I'm worried. Though, if The MediKiller (Trademarked and coined by me) is only hitting up Ivy League schools, the kids at ASU are gon' be A-OK. Or C-average OK, anyway.
The following people are not allowed to play professionals yet based on the reasoning that they are basically my age and that's ridiculous.
Lindsay Lohan (Lawyer, Prairie Home Companion, Should have been played by: Schuyler Fisk) Shia La Beouf (Trader, Wall Street 2, Should have been played by: Chris Pine) Michelle Tratchenberg (Nurse, Mercy, Should have been played by: Alexis Bledel) Hilary Duff (Undercover Reporter in the business world, The Business of Falling in Love, and actually, I almost buy this but she should have been played by: Drew Barrymore)
W4M- Downtown Dive Bar (Where the Hipsters and the Homeless Drink in Harmony)
Let me preface this by saying I don't go out. I mean I do go out. I just don't go out-out. I prefer coffee bars to actual bars. Lattes to liquor. So let me just say that my being on the "dance floor" of this dive bar in short shorts, heels, and a semi revealing top that showed all of the cleavage I don't have is something you probably won't see again until next season. Like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and Christmas, my going out-out comes around once a year. And tonight was that night. Except, I think I'm going out again tomorrow night, but that's besides the point and very rare, which is why you totes should have talked to me. Didn't you see me dropping you hints like subconsciously making an OK sign with hand? Or subconsciously sitting with my torso turned towards you? Or subconsciously telling my friend very loudly that you look like Ira Glass and that "I want to go to there"? Cosmo told me I would do all of these things subconsciously and thusly, you would then subconsciously pick up on these signs and become enthralled with me. Or something. I should have paid closer attention. Anyway, you were with a group of your friends, one of whom looked like Zooey Deschanel, and this was fascinating and scary all at the same time. I was with two girls, one of whom was having liquor issues, and another who had her hands full with some lesbians who wanted us to party. Do you want to go to there with me? E-mail me if you see this.
Words just feel good. I say this because I've been staring at diagrams for the past three hours. Diagrams of cells. Diagrams of breasts infested with cancer. Diagrams of testes and vajayjays. I try, desperately, to create stories in order to memorize every organelle in the cell. I make up songs. Oh, the ribosomes connected to the Rough Endoplasmic Reticulum and the rough Endoplasmic Reticulum is connected to the Nuclear Envelope! But this doesn't work. I didn't really have a good beat. I was going for some 3/4 time and it was kind of sounding like a sea chantie and I wasn't feeling it. I just had to do some good ol' fashioned studyin'. And I haven't done that since I was like, sixteen and trying to actually learn something in Chem and then I gave up, because seriously. I didn't care. When am I going to have to know anything about Chemistry? I mean, really. When I'm trying to take over the world?
And now here I am learning biology. I mean, actually learning it, too. Trying and everything. I haven't had to try in school since- well, I've never tried in school. So, this is scary. I'm not trying to be an asshole, but I was one of those kids who did the thing where they do as much as they have to just to get by because they are too busy doing what they love to do. In my case, I loved to write. So I was doing that. Other people I knew were partying. That was the difference between us. Actually, it still is.
Today, I was interviewed about the 'fashion' at ASU (aka, booty shorts that don't cover most girls' labias (labiae?), bikini tops, and flip flops) and I think I said to the interviewer that "the girls on the light rail at 3 AM wearing microscopic skirts and bikini tops are asking for it."
And by "I think" I mean, "I know."
I should probably tell her that quote was off the record before she publishes it and I am jumped by the sorority Phi Beta Chlamydia.
Also, I understand that I render the situation moot by posting the quote in my blog, but the blog is different from the ASU magazine in that, while both my blog and the magazine are read because people are bored, the people who read my blog know me. Usually.
I like to tell myself my mind works better on six hours of sleep and not eight. And on nights when I get four hours of sleep and not six, I just remind myself how tea can fix anything.
"Tea can fix anything," I say. But can it fix that 70 percent I got on my bio test last week? Let me just tell you that the inner nerd in me threw up after that score, and then cracked open her E-book to study in advance for the next test I'm having in two weeks. I didn't even know what chapter to read, but I thought, well, maybe I will learn something.
I haven't had a C on anything ever because in math class in high school I would just get Fs. Not because I was terrible at math, which I am, but because I didn't try, or care. It was high school, man. You've been to high school. It's totally pointless. All I learned in high school was that you can read Sparknotes and pass any class and don't sleep with Lindsay Martin because she will give you an STD. And actually, I cheated my way through high school math with the help of a little Asian girl who would slip me answers, so I never got Fs, just As.
My stomach is still all blerg about this C. And yet, this didn't persuade me to go into class on Thursday. I woke up late and took too long to get ready. It made me realize I would rather look the part of a successful student instead of actually being one. Is that wrong?
Me: He's a straight laced PC. She's a quirky Mac. He wants to install his OS into her HD. Are they compatible? Or, this fall, is Kate Hudson's heart ENCRYPTED?
Ally: Matthew McConaughey can put on glasses to show how straight laced he is.
Me: And maybe even a shirt.
Ally: To Matthew McConaughey, nothing says straight-laced and conservative like wearing a shirt.
So, basically, I wrote the following because I just realized that the last time I wrote something over 300 words was for a class a week ago and that's just sad. So, this is my own personal writing exercise that I am sharing with my reader(s?). I gave myself twenty minutes to write and I didn't edit. Enjoy.
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Sometimes I sit in school and wonder what I’m doing there. Surely, it wasn’t to sit and listen to my professor talk about themselves and how great they are was it?
Oh, you got your play into the Chinese Cultural Center’s festival? And you’re only fifty-eight years old? How marvelous.
Listening to your credentials (el-oh-el) isn’t helping me learn to be a better writer here. And it’s annoying that I have to give up precious sleep time to be here so that I can check my Facebook while my professor’s talking. I can do that at home while watching CNN in my pajamas. It pangs me in a big way. I then morph into that Hermione/Paris Geller hybrid everybody hates, but add in some vicious Perez Hilton type commentary. I made friends with the girl next to me this way. I spend my time making comments to her about the Meth addict three rows ahead.
“Sam Ronson over there,” I point to the skinny blonde, “looks like she could be the poster child for Meth. Like, this is your brain. This is your brain on Meth.” “I know right?” my new friend says, “I call her Gollum.”
As you can see, I’m learning a lot.
Look, I love school. I am that girl who thinks sweater vests were made for university students specifically and I’ll wear them with knee socks. That’s how I roll. Honestly, I like learning and I like university culture. We all think we’re so goddamn cool because we’re young and we’re bright and we’re learning things about Kierkegaard! Hydrogen bonds! Cartography! We are so well rounded and we’re such assholes. That being said, I seriously wish I had two ethnic friends to walk with across the commons while we laugh and autumn leaves fall at our feet like in the Harvard brochure. I really, really wish I were into football and the home-team. A part of me kind of likes all that. But a bigger part of me has my middle finger in the air while I scream, “I paid thirty grand for this and I'm not even getting laid?”
“You need to get out of here,” Charles tells me over sushi. “Like seriously.” “Oh ok,” I say, “Be right back, let me drop out of school.” He starts nodding enthusiastically and his hair starts dancing, “Seriously.” “Yeah, right,” I say as I pick at my spicy tuna roll. “I’m finishing school.” “But why?” He asks, “Why do you need to? To write?” I’m chewing, so he has to wait for me to answer, “This ain’t 1922,” I say, “You need a degree to be a professional.” I roll my eyes, like I’m ten, like I’m that university student who knows everything because I’m learning about Oscar Wilde right now. Did I mention I’m very well rounded? “I don’t have a degree,” he says, “I dropped out of four colleges.” “And you still have money to pay for this dinner!” I say, “But, you’re into music. You’re going into a different field than I am.” The boy has unleashed a harangue. Time to get serious. I put my chopsticks down and start counting off on my fingers, “Conan and BJ Novak went to Harvard. Tina Fey went to The University of Virginia. Mindy Kaling went to Dartmouth. In order to be funny, you also have to be really smart. The writing? You have to have that already in you. It has to be innate because anybody can write a sentence with a capital letter and a period, but you have to be good and that can't be taught. And then, you have the intelligence to back that writing up. Like, Steve Martin wrote a couple really great novels and he writes short stories, and he went to Cal State and majored in Philosophy. That guy is so smart and funny that it’s scary.” By this time, Charles’ eyes have glazed over so I settle back down in my chair. "Quit," he says simply. As if it'd be that easy. Actually, it probably would be, but I'd never even considered it. I have a difficult time even dropping a class. "Right," I say. "Dude, Phoenix suu-ucks," he says, elongating the word for emphasis in case I didn't know how much he really meant it. "Phoenix isn't that bad," I counter. "There's some good stuff. Like-" I stop short and ponder. "We have a Sprinkles Cupcakes now. We're practically cultured!" Charles overlaps my last sentence, "We both need to get out of here. Just, drop out of school and leave." "I can't just leave," I say quietly. Then I say, “There’s a lot you may not know about me,” which I think sounds very cryptic. Like I might be a super-hero you don’t know about yet. Charles just nods because he’s stopped listening.
If only it were just that easy. I sometimes feel trapped by college. I feel like a jerk because I think I am a better writer than one of my English professors. I ask a kid in my English class if that's the wrong way to feel and he looks absolutely horrified. "I think I am a terrible writer most days," he tells me. "I actually suck at writing dialogue and exposition. I've never thought I was better than a professor before." "Oh," I say sinking into my seat, "Me either. I was just joking." Except I totally wasn't.
I know I have a lot to learn and I have a lot of reading and growing up to do, but I also know what's good, and the novel my professor wrote and then made us buy for the class isn't good. It isn't good at all. And the only thing I'm learning is that some professors just like hearing themselves talk and some professors think they are God and some like hearing themselves talk AND think they are God.
Let's just say, I won't be thanking those professors when I win my Emmy. I'll thank Kanye West though- just to be on the safe side. I don't want him interrupting my acceptance speech. I swear, that dude thinks the world is his Tumblr.
On Things I Don't Know Much About (Like International Affairs.- Unless Those International Affairs Happen to be Between Like, The Spice Girls and U2.)
If I've learned anything from study groups or group projects for school, its that you never end up getting things done. Half your group is lazy, the other half is there because this guy or girl they like is there and then one or two in the group are actually mentally retarded. No seriously, I swear. They have to be, because nothing else would explain how dumb they are. Oh, and there's usually at least one meth addict.
You meet on the weekends, its the only time that ever works (yet, even still one person won't show because they 'forgot'), and nothing ever gets accomplished. People are too busy fucking around, asking you, "So what's your major?" or "What are you doing after this?" because they're trying to find a party. One girl will usually try to take charge and become extremely frustrated while doing so, eventually causing her to walk out of the Starbucks or Barnes and Noble to do the project herself at home where it will take her three hours and she'll curse everyone as she does it. (I should know. I've been this girl.)
In any event, knowing all of this, what the fuck do they hope to accomplish at this G20 summit? Seriously. You know what they're talking about right now? I'll give you a hint, it's not the economic crisis. It's Glee.
Stephanie to Ally: I will el-oh-el if I get to Heaven and there's a cocktail party I am invited to and I finally meet God and I say, "Hi, God. It's nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you!" And God says, "Actually, it's pronounced, 'Jod.'" How Embarrassing.
Ally to Stephanie: God actually spells his name "Gawd."
Stephanie: They always misspell it at Starbucks though.
Ally: God appearing in a tortilla is the equivalent of paparazzi photos.
Stephanie: It's OK to take pictures of God, just not of the kids. Not Jesus.
Ally: God just wants to get Mexican food in peace.
Stephanie: They're just like us!
Stephanie: I worry that getting into heaven is going to be like a job interview. I hope some mid-level angel isn't like, "So I see here it says you've had impure thoughts about Jason Schwartzman? And pre-marital sex?" (I am assuming I do not die a virgin here.) I just think that would suck. I'm always pretty much dressed for an impromptu job interview though. And I think if the interview happens I'd just say, "I really like what you guys are doing here and I'd really like to be apart of it!" And be super enthusiastic.
Ally: Take the Kirk Cameron test. It will tell you what you need to know to get into Heaven. Heaven is easier to get into than Harvard.
Stephanie: I thought you were going to say, "Tila Tequila's pants" and not Harvard.
Ally: Maybe its like a standardized test. The Heaven Admissions Test (HAT). 'True or False: It is wrong to kill hobos.'
Stephanie: Sometimes I wonder if our lives to God are just like one big ongoing game of Vice City? Like, "Fuck! That hooker just won't die!" Except replace "hooker" with "Hohan." Or I guess I'm being redundant there?
Ally: I think God is too busy playing Beatles Rockband to care about this game on Earth. I mean, he has John and George on his team.
But really, especially tonight, I should be studying. I have a biology test in the morning. Chapters one through three on things like philosopholipidanelles or something along those lines. Something very technical. Very solid and concrete and probably located in a nucleus somewhere in the universe in an ecosystem inside a community found in an atom that's in a snow globe on someone's coffee table. Or something very St. Elsewhere-y like that.
I should be studying.
It's interesting to me though, how immediate and goddamn important professors make you believe their class is. Ally reported to me that in one of her med-school classes, a guy, whose wife was in labor, was actually prohibited from leaving class. "You knew you'd be in this class," the professor had said to him, "You should have planned better." And the guy sat down.
The guy sat down!
I wouldn't have even asked. I would have just left, and probably with a very John Bender, middle finger in the air sort of flair, too. But then again, this is why I am going to school for literature and not medicine. I like school, but not when it gets in the way of life. Like tonight? I am in writing mode. Learning about fungi isn't cutting it. My brain can't even concentrate. I stopped at least four times in the last twenty minutes: three times to jot down notes about things I want to write and once so I could have some hummus and carrots.
What? I got hungry.
I should be studying. I started to study. I did, but then I saw this definition for covalent bonds via Wikipedia (the greatest study tool ever, by the way): "In short, attraction-to-repulsion stability that forms between atoms when they share electrons is known as covalent bonding."
Which got me thinking about how most girls in college date repulsive guys just so they have someone to date. It's attraction to repulsion out of necessity.
Covalent bonding.
None of the guys shower at school. I know this because I smell it. But some girls, some of whom are clean, can't be without a live-in boyfriend for longer than three minutes, so they'll date anything that has a clean band t-shirt on and only three weeks of stubble.
Not me, but some girls, have an attraction to repulsion.
Covalent dating.
Me? I have an attraction to pretentiousness. I think that's ionic bonding.
Just kidding, ionic bonding is attraction between two oppositely charged ions. See? I know things sort of.
Actually, it was a lucky guess and I double checked in my notes.
I should study.
I'm gonna study.
Or, I will, but right after I refresh Twitter and check my Facebook. Then after that, I'm gonna study.
Stephanie to Ally: I am not eating birthday cake that is left over from my mom's bday yesterday. I am going to have apples and honey instead because I don't want to be a fatty.
Ally to Stephanie: My mom made bread pudding out of a blueberry muffin.
Stephanie: Oh holy shit. I would eat the fuck out of that.
Ally: Yeah, it took a detour straight to my hips.
Stephanie: Yesterday, there was a forty year supply of bread for the troops at my uncle's house. So I ate it.
Ally: Challah?
Stephanie: Challah rolls, bitch.
Ally: oh rrrrrigght
Stephanie: RIGHT. So I was like HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ME. STARTING IT OFF RIGHT. and I ATE IT. I ate that right up!
Ally: You ate the shit out of that bread.
Stephanie: You bet your fucking ass I did.
Ally: This is the dirtiest conversation I have ever had about bread
Stephanie: Yeah seriously. I was just thinking that.
On After Brunch Texting on Little to no Sleep Which is When Everything Seems Super Annoying
Stephanie to Ally: Local shooting today at a Borders in the valley. Witnesses report a young woman's head exploded just shortly after she killed everyone by shooting looks.
Ally to Stephanie: I hope Nancy Grace covers this story.
Stephanie: I've never hated people like I've hated the goysh people at Borders.
Ally: What makes them goysh? Do they have sweaters thrown over their necks and names like Marge and Bill? And carry around jars of Miracle Whip?
Stephanie: They are goysh because they obvs. just came back from praising Jesus and then having a Grand Slam (with extra bacon grease) at Denny's in their muumuus (where do they get these? Seriously. I have never seen one available for purchase) and their maxis and their Hawaiian shirts. And, their glasses are all smudged from eating their extra bacon grease Grand Slams with the use of their fingers and then touching their glasses. Oh God.
Ally: So these are trashy goys as opposed to Leave it to Beaver goys?
Stephanie: Yeah, sorry, I should have clarified. But honestly, where are they coming from? I'm in the Biltmore area. This is like, where McCain lives. What? Do they bus them in like on Old People Day at Target? I mean, you just know that these are the kind of people who push their eggs onto their fork with the use of their index fingers and then they lick it and adjust their glasses again or pick their teeth. I mean, you just know. And no napkin on their laps. Too bourgeoisie. As if they even knew that word. Why are they in a bookstore? Seriously. Some woman just said (and meant it), "Oh! Oprah has a magazine?" Like, are they from Kentucky? Is it Kentucky day at Borders?
Ally: By the way, I'm talkin' in a Sarah Vowell voice in Target. It just came out of me.
Stephanie: I wish I was there with you and Sarah Vowell. The guy helping me sounds like the gay southern gentleman on Family Guy which is very strange.
Ally: Is he like, "Oh heyyyy y'all. Lookin' fer some Ginsberg?"
Stephanie: It's so awkward and mostly he's making me want to cry because you know when he was younger in Middlefuck, Nebraska, he was like, "I'm gonna make it to Broadway! I'll do it, Pa! I'll show you! I'll show all of you in this crummy town!" And then he only made it as far as a Borders in Arizona. But, he still has all the costumes he's ever made. His favorite is the Judy replica from Me & My Gal.
Ally: I am sure he makes a FABULOUS Bobby in Company though. He sings it all the time to his boyfriend Jared and he says so.
Stephanie: The girl in line behind me is talking about her life on her Blackberry Clitoris or whatever its called like she's a cast member of The Hills, "So like, then Rachel was all like, 'Oh my gawd, I rilly, rilly don't want to go to Leah's party.' And then like, she showed up anyway and everyone was like, 'oh my gawd.'"
Ally: There's a girl like that in Target too except she's looking at Hot Pockets.
Stephanie: This girl is here I think, specifically, just to ignore her mom who is standing beside her. I'm sorry for ranting. It really ain't no thang. I'm OK. Just cranky. Or 'Whatever,' which is like 'ain't no thang,' but for beginners. If I kill myself before I get out of here, I want you to have my dress collection.
On Late Night and Early Morning Texting While Doing Homework Half Asleep and Overwrought
Stephanie to Ally: Fuck Experimental Russian films.
Ally to Stephanie: Battleship Potempkin?
Stephanie: This is The Man with a Camera. Battleship Potemkin I can handle. Fucking bullshit Russian montage I cannot. I will not. I refuse. And it's on Youtube, so I have to watch it in real time. I can't even speed it up to x8 or anything. Ugh.
Ally: I'll say it. I don't think Russians are good filmmakers. They're good at gymnastics and vodka. But not film.
Stephanie: Seriously. I mean, thanks for the montage (that the French already gave us, so I'll end up regifting) and the Stoli, now get the fuck off my lawn.
Ally: Seriously. That applies to all Eastern Block countries as well. The western side of Europe is only allowed to make movies from now on.
Stephanie: That'd be fucking nice. I wish that were true right now.
(two seconds later) Stephanie: OH MY GOD THEY JUST SHOWED A VAGINA GIVING BIRTH NO
Stephanie: That woman is dead now and so is her red baby. Probably.
Ally: The woman's vagina probably symbolized the proletariat or something.
Ally: Cafe Vienna coffee is not bad btw. I couldn't make a better latte myself.
Stephanie: I spent 90USD on a latte from Lux tonight.
Ally: Overpriced and Douchebaggy.
Stephanie: Yeah, but I like downtown. It makes me feel like there's a little bit of culture in Phoenix. Almost. Kind of. Ish.
Ally: It's getting really nice. I wouldn't call it culture though, so much as slightly less philistine than everywhere else.
Stephanie: I concur. It's cute. It's like when kids think whatever food they make tastes really good.
Ally: Do you ever think to yourself, "what would I do for a Klondike bar?"
Stephanie: Yeah. I had a caucus with myself and decided not a lot. Too many calories. However, I'd probably do just anything -anything.- for strawberry frozen yogurt.
Ally: Look at us philosophizing like little DesCartes. You reflect remarkable devotion to strawberry frozen yogurt.
Stephanie: I love strawberry frozen yogurt because it loves me. Actually, I'm married to it. Also the Eiffel tower. It's a long story.
Ally: That's a great subject matter for the next BBC documentary, "I Married a Frozen Dairy Desert Product"
Stephanie: His name is Fred. When he melts it means he loves me. P.S. My step father abused me as a child. Also, we were never allowed cold treats. Only warm pie of the apple variety. I married an apple once, but he was so selfish. I divorced him within three months. He was a bad seed.
Ally: I always said apples were selfish bastards. Bananas on the other hand- very generous.
Stephanie: Dated a banana once. It had Opposite Michael Jackson Disease (OMJ). It turned black. (Also, soft.) Look, I'm not racist, but my parents weren't happy and I just couldn't do it.
Ally: I hope this is the first and last conversation I have about having sex with fruit. I don't want my future husband to be like, "Surprise! I like to have sex with oranges!"
Stephanie: I'd take that over, "Surprise! I like when you pee on me."
Ally: That's still better than, "Surprise! I like to pee on you."
Stephanie: True. Remember "Surprise! I like feet!" guy? Yeah. That was a dark period of my life.
Ally: How could I forget? I wonder if he has found the woman attached to the feet of his dreams yet?
Stephanie: They are probably attached to some guy. I think he was getting read to come out of the closet. He told me at one point that he liked Liza.
Ally: Gay. No straight men like Liza. Except for Bob Fosse, but he doesn't count.
Stephanie: He doesn't count at all... except for dance counts! A 5-6-7-8!
Ally: Too true. Thank you for making me laugh in the midst of phenotype something or another.
Stephanie: No prob. Thanks for making me laugh while I write a paper on the fucking bullshit that is Russian Experimental Film. I've seen Youtube videos better than this.
Ally: I'm sure Starwars kid and Piano Playing Cat will be happy to know that.
Text from Stephanie to Ally: This bio room smells like whore with notes of dudes who haven't showered in a week. And also, banana. Because I ate one in class just now.
Text from Ally to Stephanie: OMG YOU CAME TO SCHOOL?
(She says this because my first class was canceled, and it'd be so easy not to go.
Do you ever step away from your computer for four to six hours, and come back to it and nothing has been updated, not even really Facebook? And it's just like the whole world has been in suspended animation for the night? Why does this scare me so much when it happens? I'm not addicted to the internet, I don't actually even really like Facebook (though I am using it more now that school has started and class is long, boring, smelly, and pointless).
No, seriously. It is. My English teacher gets this. We seem to have class on average .5 times a week. Even when my professor comes to class, he shows up ten minutes late and we're let out about half an hour early, which is great because I wasn't doing anything in class except checking Facebook and Twitter anyway.
Each day before school I like to think, today's the day I get up five minutes earlier so that I can make it to Starbucks before class, and each day is the day I hit my snooze button for a third time and walk in ten minutes late to class because I went to Starbucks anyway.
The barrista at the Starbucks at ASU isn't cute in a way that is cute off school campus, but he's "at school" cute. You know what I'm talking about. It's like when you first get into your class and you pick out the best looking person. "They're OK," you think, usually, but "in class" they're the best looking person. There's a standard, and then there's the 'at school' standard. The barrista is cute, but his ranking goes up when he's 'at school' because everyone at ASU looks the same (bro-dudes in flip-flops), but this guy looks like he just walked out of a poetry reading in 1973, and I kind of like that. Every time I go in he asks me how to spell my name, "with a PH, right?" and I like to think it's not because forgets (though this is probably the case) but because he thinks I am cute. I am almost positive he doesn't recall seeing me just about every other day (I don't always go to Starbucks. Sometimes I commute tea from home in my very pretentious Dorothy Parker travel mug).
Then, the other day, after class, it was nice outside, so I sat down at a table to do some homework just outside the library in the shade. He sat down at the table next to me a few minutes later. Neither of us spoke to each other. I was too busy doing work (read: checking ONTD). Then he lit up a cigarette. Dreams were dashed in a single puff. Mine, not his. I can't deal with smoke. I had to get up and move. I then got to thinking about how I'd make like, the worst femme fatale ever. Can you imagine? There'd be no smoking, no drinking, no drama, no breasts, and no sex. I'm afraid of guns and blood, so I couldn't really do any of the murdering. I have no idea how to be sexy. I'd just be like (said in a Scar-Jo voice), "Why don't you come over and see my bow collection sometime?" I need to find my inner Jessica Rabbit. I feel stifled, like when MGM made Judy Garland play a twelve year old at seventeen in the Wizard of Oz. That's why she was on drugs, you guys. MGM is just a bunch of pushers.
Dead Yale Student was supposedly super smart and also, according to her roommate, Natalie Powers, "tougher than you'd think by just looking at her," but not so tough that she didn't end up dead and shoved into a wall in the Yale medical school.
Just sayin'.
I joke because I'm scared. Be careful. This girl was a triple threat like you (cute. funny. smart.) and that shit is dangerous. Trust no one!!!!!!!!!
"I told you if we were going to make this work you had to stop drinking and smoking pot."
OK so I fell asleep reading my bio book for four hours and when I woke up, I decided that reading Bio wasn't going to happen, but that watching Jason Schwartzman's new show, Bored to Death would.
It was a good choice. I'm a better person for it. Like, fuck nucleic acid, dude... unless you're Ally. Then please, go back to studying nucleic acid because that's your major.
Anyway, I totally had a dream tonight that I was making sock puppets (I know, what the fuck.) with Jeff Goldblume and that this mom I see every Wednesday at my cousin's school (it's the only day she picks her own kids up) was there, ignoring me as per-usual. This woman is a total bitch. She will not acknowledge my existence because she thinks I am just "the nanny." She has no idea I am actually also the niece. She's super tall and could be beautiful, except she's one of those women who can get dressed up like a dog's dinner and then still not do their hair or make up. I don't get it. Why wear the Gucci if you're just gonna walk out the door with trailer trash hair? Like, if we were priced side by side on a shelf, she'd be the knock off Safeway brand, and I'd cost two dollars more. I'm tired. Does that make sense? I think I made us sound like hookers there.
Here's the link so that you too can watch Jason Schwartzman's HBO show and not do your homework: linky link.
The first episode is entitled "Stockholm Syndrome" which, is really weird because I was totally just talking about that the other day, and I don't ever talk about that and suddenly it's popping up everywhere.
I've never been drunk, but I think it feels like I feel right now you guys.
"You can pack an hour of silence into a half hour show."
I love that my cousins think my life is more glamorous than it really is. Today, they were in the bath when I went to go kiss them goodbye, so I gave myself a once over in the bathroom mirror to make sure my mascara wasn't making me look like a silent movie actress before I left.
"Are you going to a party?" Diego asked me from the bath. I'm looking at him looking at me take a Q-tip and swipe under my eyes. "I mean, I go to ASU, but..." I laugh, "It's Wednesday?" "So?" My cousin Mateo asks. He has shampoo in his hair and he's made himself a fauxhawk. "I'm meeting my friend Amanda for coffee, but no party tonight," I answer. "It's a school night." "I thought in college that didn't matter?" Diego asks. "Plus, you always kind of dress like you're going somewhere else after you leave." I smooth my skirt, "I think what you're wearing is more appropriate for an ASU party than what I'm wearing," I say. Mateo laughs because he's naked and he gets the joke. Diego looks perplexed. "You mean what I was wearing before I got in the bath?" Mateo rolls his eyes at his brother and I just answer, "Yeah, I'm talking about your Batman polo shirt." "I get it," Diego says, "Because that Batman movie just came out and it's like, really popular." "You get it," I say. "You're ready for university."
Makin' friends wherever I go. Here's what I wrote on my Shakespeare Class' message board. I left out the part where I've taken a couple Shakespeare classes already (I don't want my teacher to have 'expectations').
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Hello! I’m Stephanie Sparer and I’m a Junior majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. While I don't read Shakespeare quite as often as I read Vogue, I do enjoy the Bard's work and the sense of superiority that comes with being able to analyze it. Except, I don’t know if I can analyze it. I really hope that from this class I get a better understanding of just what is going on in the plays Shakespeare wrote. I also hope I get a few good facts from this class that I can spew out at those parties where everyone talks about art and wine and wears scowls (scowls never go out of style in the pretentious circles). I have read a few of Shakespeare’s plays, mostly because my high school English teachers forced me to (although I loved them), and in elementary school I liked to consider myself something of a Shakespearian Expert since I played Puck in my third grade’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream production. Although, third grade me really had no idea what was going on in the play. I just memorized a few lines and flitted around the stage in a knock-off Tinker Bell costume. You should have seen me. I was adorable.
In the middle of Safeway today I saw a cereal (Fruit Loops, if you must know) that set off a thought process ("I haven't had those since high school when I was in newspaper and Ben brought them in!" Newspaper -> Yearbook -> Lit Club photo -> Horrible Doomed Friendship with Guy Who was in Lit Club and I was Enamored With Even Though He was an Asshole ->) that lead me to a memory I thought I had buried deep into my subconscious next to my old gym uniform from high school and my 'fat' years.
My insides shriveled up and my whole head went fuzzy. That shit will kill you.
I try not to think about embarrassing moments, mostly because I have so many of them that if I tried to remember them all, I'd have absolutely no time left to make other Biden-esque gaffes. However, every so often they creep upon me from behind. Like my brain is one of those annoying friends who bring up things like, "Remember that time you threw up in third grade because the class mouse pooped on your desk? And it was like, in your hair and then you started to cry?" And you're like, "No, I don't remember that," because even though it was third grade, your ego is still pretty wounded. That's how I feel more often than not. It's like my life is one big embarrassing story. I'm a fucking Sandra Bullock movie over here. I've got prat falls and Freudian slips galore. Like, even yesterday, someone said, "Oh, you're a writer?" to me, and I said back to them, "Yes. I'm sort of hoping one day I get murdered and someone finds my diary and publishes it and I live on in infamy."
Then I realized what the fuck I said. Then, I started sweating. Why the fuck did I say that? There is no way to recover from such a unabomber-y kind of statement like that. That's the kind of statement you get from a serial killer being interviewed by Barbara Walters on 20/20.
Barbara: You were a straight A student, a member of the math team, the debate team, the rugby team. You dressed well. Why all the killing? What were you hoping to get out of this?
Fucking Insane Psycho: I was hoping I would kill a bunch of people, or I would be killed, but that I'd be famous for it.
Barbara: And what kind of soda would you be if you were a soda?
