I get tired of shit a lot, but the shit I get tired of most is censoring myself on Facebook.
See, I joined Facebook back in the days when you had to have a .edu college email address to join. I wasn't actually a college student, but I took college classes and I wanted to impress this chick I had the hots for (ok, so it was more like platonic lesbo craving for affection) who had a Facebook account under similar circumstances. So I got meself a Facebook account, and it was pretty boring at first because most of my high school friends couldn't have one, but then Facebook did that thing where it ripped a hole in the belly of the then-muffintop monster known as Myspace and sucked all of those young folks out of its dripping guts and then similar things to older folks and folks in nursing homes and, my favorite, folks who make hiring decisions.
Yeah. Thanks Facebook.
Now I hesitate to even drop the f-bomb in my Facebook statuses. Which is kind of silly when you consider that I still left my somewhat questionable poems up, particularly that one about the rape of Persephone and birds pooing on everything.
But, what I mean to say is, Facebook being a literal tool for people to "spy" on me in my less professional moments takes the fun out of Facebook. Yay! It has Farmville! But wait! You better not be playing Farmville while you're being bored out of your mind working behind the front desk of the library. Your boss will get pissed.
So silly.
People like to have fun. Taking the place where they like to share their fun with their friends and turning into some kind of glass house into which potential employers can voyeur-stare? Not fun any more.
Please, someone make a replacement for Facebook. Someone who understands that professionals deserve to have fun, too. Professionals have the right to say "fuck" after hours. Professionals can do their fucking professional jobs, then roll off their pantyhose, stick their feet into big fuzzy fuck-off slippers, and get shitfaced.
But, anyway. What I wanted to do today, on Facebook, was to make the following comment on a friend's photograph of two half-gallon jugs of chocolate milk, side by side, on a desk:
"That shit needs to go in the refrigerator."
And then I couldn't, because I was struck with this sudden, paralyzing fear that I'd apply for an internship, and some dude would go look at my Facebook, which has privacy settings up to my ears but still isn't enough to really protect anything, and be all, "This chick isn't professional enough about chocolate milk. Moving on."
RIDICULOUS.
Facebook, please be fun again. I'm tired of being serious on you all the time.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Kinda like a raccoon
Is it a "thing" now to fill up whole notebooks with crap that you think sounds neat? One of my sister's friends was asking around on Facebook for quotes she hadn't heard yet, so that she could put them and some random poems into a notebook. I'm thinking, wut? What is the point of this? Are your own thoughts so boring that you have to paste others' into a notebook to, I don't know, look at while you're on the toilet?
Because, to me, that's kind of like a raccoon collecting shiny things just because they're shiny. The big difference here is that raccoons can't create shiny things on their own.
I'm not saying that quotes aren't awesome. They can be fun, inspirational, motivational, or a host of other positive adjectives. I just don't see the merit in filling a whole notebook with them.
Because, to me, that's kind of like a raccoon collecting shiny things just because they're shiny. The big difference here is that raccoons can't create shiny things on their own.
I'm not saying that quotes aren't awesome. They can be fun, inspirational, motivational, or a host of other positive adjectives. I just don't see the merit in filling a whole notebook with them.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Whoops. Irresponsibility.
So I was going to share the rest of the epic adventures with the ants and the roommate's dirty bowl that lives on the counter and how that week just sort of sucked and all the awful hole digging that went along with it. Like, literal hole digging. They dug a huge hole right outside of my pitiful window which is barely an inch off the ground and it sort of matched the hole that they smashed into my wall.
And then the pest guy came in as requested and lectured me on ants for approximately half an hour before getting on his hands and knees and smacking the shit out of those little fuckers with his bare hands. Because he's a professional. This is how professionals do shit, y'all.
I don't actually say "y'all" in real life. Unless I'm drunk. And I misspell it most of the time, even in sobriety.
And then my computer got one of those awful fake anti-virus bugs that hijacked my browsers and tried to convince me that I needed to download their fake software and give them my personal information. I had to call up my dad so he could look up the quick fix online and subsequently spent a full hour trying to restart my laptop in safe mode. My laptop's row of function keys is fucked up. You have to press Fn and the function key simultaneously to get the F1 thru F12. Otherwise the keys do things like mute and increase screen brightness, which is actually super useful, but less awesome when the laptop is new and you're not used to this newfangled "user friendly" shit. Since to restart in safe mode, you have to press F8, this was a serious headache until I figured out how it worked.
Quick tangent here: Why is it that every time I press "enter" to start a new paragraph in the blogger composing window, the cursor looks like it's jumped up to the previous paragraph even though it's where it actually should be? It's confusing and stupid.
Blogger.
And then things got slightly better, then slightly worse, and then better again. I totally had a more recent, relevant point to bring up when I started this post but now I've lost it while reminiscing on the past month. Whatever, no one's reading but me. No worries here.
Which means that if I wanted to give all my readers a hug, I'd be hugging myself. That would be awkward and super emo. No thanks.
And then the pest guy came in as requested and lectured me on ants for approximately half an hour before getting on his hands and knees and smacking the shit out of those little fuckers with his bare hands. Because he's a professional. This is how professionals do shit, y'all.
I don't actually say "y'all" in real life. Unless I'm drunk. And I misspell it most of the time, even in sobriety.
And then my computer got one of those awful fake anti-virus bugs that hijacked my browsers and tried to convince me that I needed to download their fake software and give them my personal information. I had to call up my dad so he could look up the quick fix online and subsequently spent a full hour trying to restart my laptop in safe mode. My laptop's row of function keys is fucked up. You have to press Fn and the function key simultaneously to get the F1 thru F12. Otherwise the keys do things like mute and increase screen brightness, which is actually super useful, but less awesome when the laptop is new and you're not used to this newfangled "user friendly" shit. Since to restart in safe mode, you have to press F8, this was a serious headache until I figured out how it worked.
Quick tangent here: Why is it that every time I press "enter" to start a new paragraph in the blogger composing window, the cursor looks like it's jumped up to the previous paragraph even though it's where it actually should be? It's confusing and stupid.
Blogger.
And then things got slightly better, then slightly worse, and then better again. I totally had a more recent, relevant point to bring up when I started this post but now I've lost it while reminiscing on the past month. Whatever, no one's reading but me. No worries here.
Which means that if I wanted to give all my readers a hug, I'd be hugging myself. That would be awkward and super emo. No thanks.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I Think I've Been Here Before
Ok, let's be honest. Glitter isn't my first blog. It's not even my second. I think it's my fifth. Or maybe sixth, if you count Myspace. Seventh, if you count Facebook.
I don't have commitment issues. I just like to keep things separate.
I also like not having ants in my bathroom, not having a suitemate who believes it her sole duty to feed those ants by dropping crumbs like fairy dust everywhere she goes, and not having giant gaping holes in my wall.
I take what I can get. I can get as much blogging space as I want. There are apparently drawbacks to using Blogger, but in the five years I've been keeping blogs with it, they haven't been a real issue for me.
Last night, I came back after a riveting adventure of sitting and ordering books off my laptop from my boyfriend's place only to find small black dots moving along at a steady pace on the floor of the bathroom I share with my suitemate (and her boyfriend, who technically lives down the hall, but for all purposes never sleeps in his own room). I was so freaked out that by the time I had run back into my own room and shut the door firmly behind me, I had convinced myself that the bathroom was overrun by ants.
I sent in an electronic request to maintenance, pest division, to come look at it first thing in the morning, and a pity party email to my RA, whom I've only seen twice in person but is pretty damn cool as far as I'm concerned. My RA consoled me and offered me a sleeping bag and floorspace, but I was too proud to leave my room to the mercy of the legion of ants holding the bathroom hostage. There's only a slight barrier between the bathroom and my bedroom, and I would be a fool not to fortify my defenses.
Armed with nothing more than a bottle of 100% tea tree oil (nature's most omnipotent natural remedy, to hear some speak of it) and a box of 200 ct. cotton buds (q-tips for those of us who don't believe our packaging), I dabbed, swiped, and dribbled the potent smelling stuff all over the threshold of the doorway, killing any ants that came into my room on sight.
I kept this up, re-applying and swabbing and stabbing with q-tips, for the better part of six hours before admitting to myself, sometime around 1:30 AM, that I would have to sleep for something like seven hours, and that I couldn't expect myself to catch every unlucky ant to brave the tea tree oil barrier while I was catching some shut-eye.
Little did I know, the morning had more unpleasant surprises to spring.
I don't have commitment issues. I just like to keep things separate.
I also like not having ants in my bathroom, not having a suitemate who believes it her sole duty to feed those ants by dropping crumbs like fairy dust everywhere she goes, and not having giant gaping holes in my wall.
I take what I can get. I can get as much blogging space as I want. There are apparently drawbacks to using Blogger, but in the five years I've been keeping blogs with it, they haven't been a real issue for me.
Last night, I came back after a riveting adventure of sitting and ordering books off my laptop from my boyfriend's place only to find small black dots moving along at a steady pace on the floor of the bathroom I share with my suitemate (and her boyfriend, who technically lives down the hall, but for all purposes never sleeps in his own room). I was so freaked out that by the time I had run back into my own room and shut the door firmly behind me, I had convinced myself that the bathroom was overrun by ants.
I sent in an electronic request to maintenance, pest division, to come look at it first thing in the morning, and a pity party email to my RA, whom I've only seen twice in person but is pretty damn cool as far as I'm concerned. My RA consoled me and offered me a sleeping bag and floorspace, but I was too proud to leave my room to the mercy of the legion of ants holding the bathroom hostage. There's only a slight barrier between the bathroom and my bedroom, and I would be a fool not to fortify my defenses.
Armed with nothing more than a bottle of 100% tea tree oil (nature's most omnipotent natural remedy, to hear some speak of it) and a box of 200 ct. cotton buds (q-tips for those of us who don't believe our packaging), I dabbed, swiped, and dribbled the potent smelling stuff all over the threshold of the doorway, killing any ants that came into my room on sight.
I kept this up, re-applying and swabbing and stabbing with q-tips, for the better part of six hours before admitting to myself, sometime around 1:30 AM, that I would have to sleep for something like seven hours, and that I couldn't expect myself to catch every unlucky ant to brave the tea tree oil barrier while I was catching some shut-eye.
Little did I know, the morning had more unpleasant surprises to spring.
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