Thursday, February 24, 2011

It could have been tragic

I went to bed a little later than usual last night, having napped intermittently throughout the day and then studying for my cell bio exam in my waking hours. I drifted off to sleep somewhat slowly, only to be jolted awake by the loud sounds of intoxication accompanied by the strong smell of tobacco product.

First, it must be understood that I live on the second floor of a dormitory that is on a hill. One one side of the hill, the first floor is level with the ground and the second floor is where a second floor should be. On the other side--my side--the first floor is windowless dungeon and the second floor's window barely peeps over the parking lot. At night, bright parking lot lights provide ample lighting in my darkened room to play chess by, and all manner of sounds and aromas originate, quite literally, right next to my window.

I usually keep said window closed, but I have noticed as of late that I, as a mammal of higher intelligence, prefer fresh air while indulging in my studies, so I leave it cracked open throughout the day. This is particularly necessary in the winter since residents are unable to adjust the heat, and the rooms are fairly boiling over without proper ventilation.

So, through my only barely open window, at three in the morning (of course I checked), two males and one female were taking a smoke break right outside my window, which I'm sure is against some nonsmoking regulation. I wouldn't bitch as much, except they were also talking loudly.

They said all sorts of things which I promptly forgot in my half-asleep haze, but I do remember imagining larger and larger rocks falling on them until one of the childish males made some sort of offensive comment to the female, and she squeaked "Stopppp!" several times before stomping away to what was presumably her building. The males tried to drag her back into their boozed out smoking party, but she insisted that "That's IT. The end. ENDDDD."

Whatever the hell that means.

When they finally got her back within range of my hearing, she was sobbing brokenly and saying things like, "People are always calling me chunky or fat and I feel like I'm ugly and..." She seemed to have a complete meltdown and then the males left with her.

I was completely clueless as to what had actually transpired, but I didn't really care. I was just glad that they were gone. And while, under normal circumstances, I would have felt sorry for the female's apparent body image troubles, at 3 fucking AM on the night before an exam, I was just glad they had a reason to go away.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

I wrote a poem for myself

But you can read it. No, really, it's ok. Then we'll be the only two people in the universe who have read this poem. Until I become famous. Fame = all bets are off.

It's not hard to understand
the enchantment that I feel
when I crack open the window
and cold night air so gently
trickles and drips into
my room
bringing with it the smell
of wood fire and cigars

Ok. So I'm pretty sure they're actually cigarettes (my peers don't typically smoke cigars outside my window), but that would've thrown the whole poem off and I'll be damned if I let a couple of inconsiderate late night smokers ruin my dorm experience any further than they already have.

They're called thumbs, asshole

At a time like this, when I should really be studying for my stats quiz, I'm too distracted by my roommate's astounding inability to do simple things like comprehend basic bathroom hygiene to cram more lecture notes into my brain.

I may have mentioned before that my roommate once left out a dirty dish on the sink for over a month. Not just any dish. A dish that had previously held some kind of curry. Now don't get me wrong; I like curry. A lot. But curry that's left over from a meal, sitting in a dish, under a few inches of fetid tap water? Not a fan.

Anyway, I bore that for over a month, taking refuge at the boyfriend's on the weekends, where he and his roommate understand that dishes go in the kitchen sink, not the bathroom sink. After giving the roommate plenty of time to redeem herself (in which she failed to do so), I shot her a message on Facebook and was all, "Hey, remember that dirty bowl living on the countertop? Could you take care of that?"

If she gets to be disgusting, then I get to be passive aggressive. I see no reason to give up my scant rights.

She did end up taking care of the dirty dish after week 6. Thank God. I was starting to feel twinges of anxiety, like whatever was living inside the bowl had evolved eyeballs and was judging me every time I was naked in the bathroom.

Then, a few weeks ago, I discovered that someone had clawed through the last of the toilet paper on the roll and, sitting on the incredibly scummy bathroom floor, was a somewhat-new, formerly-clean roll. It boggled my mind to imagine the previous toilet occupant rising from his or her porcelain throne, walking the two steps it takes to get to the cabinet under the sink, removing the fresh roll of toilet paper from its plastic packaging, and then planting it on the filthy floor instead of mounting it safely on its intended holder. Why the missing step? Why subject everyone who uses that roll from now on to cringing at the nasty crap that it picked up on the side?

I assumed it was the suitemate's boyfriend. He seems to be a grade A douchebag--I say "seems" because I make it a point not to talk to him. Some may say that this is judgmental of me, but I make it a personal goal to limit my interactions with douchebags, so maybe it's his fault for seeming like such a giant, gaping one. I hear them screaming at each other in her room late at night, and then she starts crying, and then he yells at her for crying, and then someone slams the door, and then I feel sorry for her. I'd cry if I had a douchebag boyfriend who put perfectly good toilet paper on the floor, too.

Except tonight, when I was diligently trying to study for tomorrow's quiz, I heard the bathroom door open on her side of the suite (there are two doors into the bathroom, one that connects to my room and the other to hers). I heard her use the toilet, flush, then go to the cabinet and remove the last roll of toilet paper from the package. I waited to hear the twang of her dismounting the tp holder (it's got a creaky spring) as she reloaded that shiny fresh roll for all to enjoy, but instead, I just heard the door on her side slam shut.


I decided to wait a few minutes before going in to check, under the pretense of collecting tap water for my late night snack of instant ramen. Indeed, staring guiltily up at me from the dingy bathroom floor was my poor roll of toilet paper, painstakingly purchased from Meijer. I sighed a deep sigh from the bottom of my soul. Then I sighed again, a little less deeply, because the bathroom did not smell good.

Now, loading toilet paper onto the roll is a little more difficult than usual in our bathroom. Our toilet paper holder employs the use of a stubbornly strong spring which is hard to compress enough in order to squeeze it out of its designated indents in the wall. I remember the first time I reloaded the toilet paper, the entire tube flew out of my hand and fell apart. It took me several days to recuperate from the disappointment in myself that the scenario generated.

However, this is not an excuse to not reload toilet paper when it is due. Nor is patent college student laziness.

You have thumbs, motherfucker. Use them.

I feel another passive aggressive Facebook message is due.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Blizzardpocalypzilladdon is futile

I just thought it would be relevant to point out that my university was one of the only ones in the state to not cancel classes this morning. I thought I'd walk to my early morning lab as per usual, even though I got a discouragingly teeny amount of sleep last night. By the time I had shuffled to the next bus stop over, I'd made up my mind to not walk any further than the cafeteria again this semester.

Then I forgot all about it this afternoon and walked all the way back from classes. Halfway through my waddle home, I was driven off the sidewalk by a vehicle scraping snow off the ground. Way to defeat the purpose, vehicle.

I should probably eat dinner tonight, but motivation to go out again is low.

They're not all gonna be gems

I just wanted to pop on here to say that I love purple eyeliner. I remember, way back when in high school, when I was trying to figure out this whole cosmetics business (not because I wanted to be more feminine or whatever, but because I needed the knowledge for the role of a drag queen but that's a really long, overtold story that I'll save for some other time after I've gained fresh perspective on it), I did an internet search and the internet told me that purple eyeliner was so great for me. I couldn't make it work back then, with a tiny stub of purple eyeliner that I'd stolen from the drama department's makeup stash, but now I have SO MUCH PURPLE EYE MAKEUP. And it is ALL AWESOME.

I'm sorry if you came here looking for a really deep post. But I looked at my blog stats not fifteen minutes ago and apparently I'm the only person who reads these posts, so that's ok anyway.

P.S.: I am really confused to why my suitemate's ex is still using our shower. Unless he's not an ex anymore? Still, it's disconcerting to have "boy in shower" worries when I'm living in a single for the sole reason of avoiding interaction with icky people.

P.P.S.: No, there is only one person writing this blog--me. Something confusing happened with Google accounts and when I tried to change the name I sign with, things exploded and now it looks like I'm two people. I'm not, really.