My room smells like Punjabi and I'm almost ok with it

As I turned off Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gam and turned on my M.I.A CD, I peered over at my Indian roommate (in the PC sense, she’s actually from India) and realized that I have become obsessed with all the mystery that India has to offer me. Unfortunately I am not writing this to tell you how enticing the people and culture of India are. This is about how Bollywood films are solely responsible for transforming myself into an awkward recluse. I spend hours at the Ann Arbor public library watching movies about Indians who fall in love, find aliens, rob banks, and everything in between while performing randomly placed song and dance numbers. I don’t know what it is about these films but I can’t stop watching them. The people at the library think I’m taking a film class focusing on Hindi cinema. They think this because I told them I was after renting my eighth movie. Hey, better to be a liar than a creeper. Besides I don’t want them to cut me off, and they really might if they knew I was renting all these movies for my own personal enjoyment. My friends already call me “Bollywood” I don’t need some stranger thinking I have deep-seated issues and have decided to use Bollywood movies to escape from reality. Not that this is why I watch these movies. For myself, it’s as if I’ve wandered upon an untapped resource of entertainment, and I plan to use this resource until I can’t look at my roommate with out being overcome by the urge to throw rice all around the room while dancing in a Pashmina. Maybe she’d finally move out and stop stinking up the room with the damn scent of curry, the one thing I hate about India. Yes, the scent lingers and makes your room smell like ass and there’s nothing better than returning home after a long day of school and work to a room that smells like some dog farted in it and then ran away. But I really must say, if you are an awkward person who happens to also be bored I would not hesitate to look into Bollywood films.

Award City Award: Eugene, Oregon

For those of you lucky bastards who have yet to experience the 'World's Greatest City of the Arts and Outdoors' (aka Eugene, Oregon) let me educate you on what I'm quite confident is the most awkward city in the United States.

How can a city be awkward you ask? Where to begin. Oh yes, there not actually being a city. Eugene, OR is composed of, let's say, sections. There's the school section where the University of Oregon is situated. There are two restaurants, a lot of beards, and more than enough dreaded trustifarians in VW Minibuses smoking bowls in the woods. The student body of Eugene sports uniforms of galoshes (yes, galoshes), flannel and Gore Tex windbreakers. Grimaces and mountain bikes are the common accessories. But this is to be expected of a PacNW college town. What isn't to be expected is, well, the rest of Eugene.

After some careful research, I learned that the glorious city of Eugene is plagued by an alarming amount of cancer cases. I think this could be attributed to the cough-syrup fumes emulating form the meth labs dotting the city near the train tracks. Should you wish to familiarize yourself with these chemical plants, take a drive parallel to the tracks and you will see well-constructed junkyards-cum-houses, equipped with roughly four or five twenty-something males wearing baggy sweatshirts and sporting severely vexed eyebrows, open facial wounds (on account of the scratching), petting a dog with a missing leg.

Which brings me to Eugene's deepest darkest, most awkward secret of all; the Bromance epidemic. That's right, next time you happen to drive through Eugene (probably because you missed it and/or decided against it thanks to a sturdy foundation of common sense), just notice the guy-to-girl ratio. And I'm not just saying there's an abundance of men (which there is), it's as if the city (town, village, commune) of Eugene is a large second grade. Men do not associate with women. It is likely for one to see upwards of seven guys hanging around, talking about going to the Men's Warehouse on the weekends, or tailgating to Palo Alto for an upcoming Frisbee Golf competition. Perhaps its the amount of marijuana smoking? THC does affect the libido after all...in any case, the gender separation is perplexing, frightening and absurd.

Not all of Eugene is bad. Well, the pizza is. But Hendrick's park, the small patch of woods (yes, where the bearded hippies park the VWs) is quintessential Northwest and should you be fortunate to live in this part of the city (which is about 1/20th), you'd probably be happy (assuming you wouldn't often journey into the other sections of Eugene).

Have you heard the rumor that Eugene, OR is the Anarchist Capital of the country? As did I, my friend. I think I can safely put this myth to rest. As the Eugenians present at the WTO protests, in actuality, numbered four. The primary origin of the lot being Salem, OR. Not only is this disappointing, but it says something about the city as a whole. This anarchist 'rumor' is not something that originated from anarchists. It's actually the product of some kind of tourist campaign, in which the mayor himself, at some point, commented on the growing number of anarchist residences living in the city. I might be wrong, but it does not seem advantageous for the mayor to boast about the number of anarchists residing in his city as a means of drawing other anarchists. Is the tourism this bad that a city government is attracting the people who would ultimately wish to end it? Perhaps. For the twenty-three hours I was there, I saw only two police cars, one of which had the driver's side window Sharpie-tagged. Which may indicate that the legitimacy of Eugene's police department is, lets say, overshadowed by their desire to house the nation's anarchists. And this should be rightly rewarded. If there were any living there.

Aside from the mythical anarchist community, there is a very real presence of runners in Eugene, OR. It's called Track Town, U.S.A. or something? Which does...not make it any more desirable to visit? If anything, this slick tag line brings to mind short shorts and gawky teenagers, bull-dozed fields and concrete, relay batons and hurtles--the whole lot. And while a lot of Eugene is this reality, its one of those things better kept mum. Though it seems the tourist department's going for that whole reverse-psychology thing, so perhaps its a lure tactic.

Head over to a restaurant where they serve French toast and pulled pork sandwiches. You'll here locals gripe about the communes taking over town. This frustration was vocalized by a waiter who was, lets say thoroughly disturbed, about the nature in which the commune residents live. Apparently there's an abundance of cats and more littler boxes than people. Which, honestly, struck me as one of the more amusing aspects of Eugene and I regret not having explored this phenomenon further.

Eugene is in a constant state of mist/rain which leaves everyone looking a little more squirrely than necessary. Die hard Eugenians can be deciphered from the out-of-towners by their refusal to wear a rain jacket or sport an umbrella in torrential downpours. That's right, there won't be so much as a bowing of the head. Heads held high, meth-rain is a merely a trivial part of daily existence. Some of the more sissy citizens opt to tie plastic bags onto the seats of their bikes or wear flaps of a scissored garbage bag over their faces to provide a slight salvation from the perpetually moist climate.

Should you be from Eugene, not only am I sorry, but I'm certain you may be growing upset with the nature of this post. This might be because I have never before experienced a place with such a complete disregard for sarcastic humor. That's right, there is no sarcasm. Not even a little smile, a slight laugh when someone slides from the slick of their garbage-bagged bike seat. And actually, this inevitably made communicating with Eugenians a bit daunting. Again, this could be chalked up to the amount of pot-smoking or the meth epidemic: so maybe people are in a constant state of being burnt or in the midst of tweak-rage, but it makes a good-natured visit difficult.

Still want to go to Eugene? Yes, it is something you should experience for yourself. Some advice: flannel and/or plaid, love for the outdoors (so you can appreciate it through the smoke-stained windows of your Mazda), an affinity for running (from the local gypsies who want to sell you 'collectibles' like femurs and gold teeth), a large fleece collection, an aversion to cigarette smoking (because the meth's safer...), a love of cats (as in one day your commune bed being replaced by a slew of litter boxes), a healthy immune system (to thwart the bizarrely hazardous toxin levels), and a car (so you can, after seeing the thirty minutes of Eugene there is to see, get the fuck out of there with some semblance to decency still in tact.)

I Just Couldn't Help Myself.

Gxogle? I understand the concept. It's Valentine's Day. wow. How much money is this person making? The Google icon making man/woman? Is this considered a legitimate profession? Does he or she get benefits? Does his or her boss use Google on the days the designs are posted? Gxogle. Right.

Cute? Or Creepy.

Ah when we’re awkward, there’s such a fine line between cute and creepy. Because 'cute' to awkwardists may mean 'creepy' to the average folk. So then at what point does cute become creepy? Some instances of definite line crossing found in the best cesspool of social deviance--the bar;

1.) The relator. We have everything in common. I mean, everything. At first, finding similarities is entertaining and comforting. You feel you have a special bond with Mr. Coors because he went to the same YMCA for swim lessons that you did. AND you were both minnows. Things, however, start to take a creepy turn when he literally has everything in common with you. Same dog name, same college major, same favorite artist, same double-jointed big toe. This is when you stop providing the information first and stop enabling Mr. Ripley.

2.) The name commenter. Your name’s Alice? My sister’s name is Alice, I love that name. Who doesn’t like their name to be complimented? It could go the other way when you introduce yourself and the belligerent dude behind you shrieks ALICE?! NOT ALICE. THAT’S A BAAAAAD NAME. Within seconds you are informed about some horrible Alice who tried to kill him, stole his projects in advertising school, was crazy, etc. As he’s grabbing your wrist and shaking you because of the PTSD that’s been triggered thanks to your name, you may want to tell him he hadn’t heard right. It’s Sally…yeah SALLY. And you can fake laugh until you track out an escape route.

3.) The drink buyer. Thanks, that’s so nice! A free drink! Especially with the economy, how great, generous, etc. Until he orders you another one and another one and another one. You’ve hardly taken a sip and you’re staring at a row of greyhounds. Maybe they’re for him (something in common?), but no, turns out he doesn’t drink. That’s right, he’s stone cold sober and you’re only a fifth as drunk as he likes ‘em. Declare you have to go to the bathroom as he pulls the five drinks in and “keeps them safe for you.’

4.) The fly. A guy pops up next to you. You smile, kind of blush and he smiles and kind of blushes. Cute. You make your way to the stage and you’re doing some kind of rabbit dance when you hit someone and….it’s him. What a coincidence. You move stage right and you’re pogoing and sway to your left and you say sorry! But it’s him and he just smiles. Soon you’re in the bathroom and he’s outside the door, you’re at the bar ordering RedBulls and he’s in the seat next to you. Smoking a cigarette, his hand juts out from no where, holding a steady flame. Yup, you got yourself a bar stalker, find fake mustache.

5.) The watcher. Dancing, you notice a guy across the audience watching you. You meet eyes, etc and it’s cute in a tragi-emo-hipster kind of way. But the next song, he’s still watching you and you shrug it off; you’re a pretty good dancer after all. But song after song, he keeps watching and you start to lose a bit of rythym. You keep looking over your shoulder paranoid that maybe this guy knows you from somewhere else. Maybe he’s the guy who prank called you a month ago and pretended to be a serial killer (that never really got resolved, afterall). What if he’s a narc and knows you’re holding? The music grows faint and your blood’s beating in your ears. Ditch the show before you panic-seizure the two grams out of your pocket and all over the dance floor.

6.) The drug guy. Sure why not? It’s been a while. You smoke a joint out back, do a line in the bathroom—whatever your forte. You thank him and part ways. How generous. But in fifteen minutes he’s back and wants another go around. You kindly turn down his offer but he won’t let up. He’s got you by the arm dragging you to the bathroom so he doesn’t feel pathetic doing it alone and he’s talking the whole time, going on and on, asking you questions, not caring if you answer. Soon you realize you’ve become the drug-guy’s babysitter and he’s quite an addict. P.S. There’s no such thing as free drugs.

7.) The DIY cell phone guy. He’s asking for your number and he’s, well, very attractive. You go to type it in. But he wants to see it, he’ll type it in. How nice. Until you notice him going through your text messages and taking a ridiculous amount of time to punch in ‘ROB.’ You ask for it back, but he’s not done yet. Finally, after a good five minutes of pestering, you get your phone back and immediately go to erase his name, but it seems as though he didn’t even get around to doing that. Five days later, you’ll be going through your contacts and find Mr. Big Cock. Erase.

And good God, this was only in twenty minutes of observation. Must. Rekindle. Faith. In. Mankind. Awk on.

Hipsters Welcome Ski Pants Into Wardrobe, No One Into Band

Last night I went to a show in glorious downtown Costa Mesa, California. The bar was kind of dungeon like (in a cool way) and the clientele was, to be expected, hipster-esque. I say hipster-eque because while Orange County hipsters are full in force, they are a slightly unique hybrid—varying form the L.A. hipster and certainly from the hipster of New York origin. Of course, they all have two things in common: beards and fedoras. And there were plenty of both. However, the Orange county hipsters opt for more beachy-geekdom. Board shorts with a white button down (I swear) and, for the girls, a low-cut one-piece bathing suit under high-waist jeans. Interesting. And then there was the girl wearing full-fledged ski pants and I just really don’t know what to say about that one. Because, one, it’s Southern California and two, they were the bulky mom-ski pants. I mean they were actually legit for taking on Stowe or Okemo back east. Bizarre. But quirky. What I also found interesting was that there had been three different bands listed, yet the same members seemed to compose all three of the bands. There was one folky-twang girl who remained exclusively in the first, but the rest of the members just rotated instruments like those weird gym classes you used to have when the gym teacher was too hung-over to organize a softball game and would instead opt for ‘stations,’ while he did nothing and you jumped rope for three minutes before moving on to buddy-crunches. Is this the new hipster phase; pretend you’re in three bands when it’s really just one with a different name and some guy playing the fiddle instead of the bass? How confusing. It was good despite the videotaping that seems to be taking over hipster shows. Is it some kind of indie-folk-stage porn? It isn’t uncommon to see people videotaping live shows, but it is strange to see an old school video-camera (a la vintage typewriter) held by some little guy without shoes on. Also there was shushing. People actually sushed during the show. Wouldn’t it seem that a shush could be louder than hipster-mumble-judging? Wouldn’t it maybe irritate the band to perform to an audience that is relentlessly shushing? Let’s not do that, concert-shushing. Perhaps the ski-pants should be reconsidered as well.

Dog Talk and Other Trivial Things In Which I Find Myself Participating

Small Talk. Just the phrase gives me anxiety. The blatant waste of time, intelligence, and self dignity just to feel more comfortable near the person you're stuck with in the elevator, neighboring bathroom stall, on line at the drug store, etc. Perhaps you've experienced the bountiful joy of working in retail or hosting at a restaurant where you are paid to spend six hours engaging in and striking up small talk.

Some of my favorites:

Dog Talk--So you have a dog. I don't, but I'm aware of dogs. I know enough to get by in the conversation. Because actually, this isn't really a conversation at all. You are talking at me about your rhodesian-pug-poo's latest romp through the neighbor's trash. Not cute, not funny, this conversation is officially utterly boring. Even though I've, for some reason, felt the need to bring up my childhood dog and continue marinating in the ennui of this conversation. Ed did this, Ed did that, Ed's the best. "Who's Ed?" I ask...oh, it's your dog, again, you're talking about your dog. Please let me go. (Also applies to people who revert to baby talk when speaking of or at their cat, hamster, or parrot, ARR!)

The Weather--Wait. I'm not blind! I can SEE! For the love of God, the world is clear! So approaching me with, 'beautiful day out yeah?' is almost grounds for a fist-fight. Perhaps I were blind. Perhaps I am colorblind and the sky always looks gray. I could be a manic-depressive who dwells in storms and lightning strikes. Thus making this 'beautiful day,' ugly to me or the same as every other day. Do you need clarification? Are you unsure if the day's beautiful? Is it sort of but not really? Are you longing for some sort of common human bond based on the weather outside? Well, to get out of this, I have to say yes, despite what I think because apparently you've failed to recognize the alternatives. Oh, it's supposed to rain tomorrow? What are you, some kind of Weather Channel Robot? Did you memorize the 7-day forecast so you can talk confidently to random people? Am I supposed to go, "Oh really? That's too bad," Is it bad? Is it? It's the weather and it changes and there's nothing you can do about it. Quit acting like you created this glorious day for all of us, you bastard! Try a pick up game of baseball for a more productive sense of camaraderie with your fellow man.

I really like that! Thanks. Although, I say this too sometimes. I say it when I really don't like something as well. Because it is socially unacceptable to say 'Good GOD! What the fuck are you wearing?!' I'll smile and say 'Wow, I really like your pants,' because I have to say something about them, I just can't keep quiet on the matter. But suppose you really do like that hat, scarf, balaclava, fake tooth. Your smug smile after announcing it shows that perhaps that was your charitable act of the day. At home, you will, before drifting off to a saintly sleep, congratulate yourself on being so selfless, so nice to that clerk at the new age store. You're just great. Keep it up. Oh, and then there's the people who make a whole big to-do about the thing. You like that! You have something just like that! Your grandmother gave it to you right before she rocked back too hard in her rocking chair and feel out her 3rd story bay window! Your grandmother was crazy! She was also a drunk! Maybe you're a drunk too! Maybe you need help! Maybe you should have stopped talking after "Here's your change, have a good day."

Politics. Ok, now wait. Small talk is supposed to be self-explanatory. It's talk about small, insignificant things. Who said you could talk politics to me while waiting for the bus? Why would you think I care? Please don't show me your Obama tattoo. Did you just tell me a statistic? Are you quoting things? Now wait. Wait just a minute. What do you do again? You work at TCBY? The fro-yo store that went out of business three years ago? You're high on PCP? Ok Mr-I-read-half-a-Wikipedia-article-on-Obama-and-now-I'm-more-educated-than-you. Just because you know about the same amount as our politicians doesn't exactly make you one. Let me off of your crazy-train of political misunderstandings. This is a bus-stop, after all. (Also applies to issues of religion, race, sexual orientation, abortion, or anything that you could get you potentially killed, or at the very least stabbed with the refill of a mechanical pencil, at any given intersection in Santa Ana.

Where are you from? Sensing an accent are we? Picking up a little telepathy of snow and hailstorms? Alaska maybe? The Arctic? BOSTON! Ah, you were close. Well, you have a fourth cousin who lives in Boston. Surely this random person knows him. What's his name again? Something McDonald. McDonald! Know anyone with the last name McDonald? Oh, well you're worthless to me. Unless I can remember anyone I've ever met being from Boston. First and last names would be a great help. Scottie? Was there a Scottie? SCOTTIE DOUGLAS! You just yelled that at the poor woman, but who cares! She could know someone you know! Wouldn't that be INSANE?! No, she doesn't know him. Who is this stupid bitch and why doesn't she know anyone from Boston? Wait, wait! You went there once. Yes, yes, you were three and a half and your mother got you frozen yogurt...if only you could remember the street? That frozen yogurt place by that statue? Kind of by the highway? There was a school nearby and dogs...she, naturally doesn't know (this woman is a moron). She starts guessing....no, no, wait a minute. That sounds right! That must be the frozen yogurt place! And if not, you feel better making some sort of connection with this poor woman who will say anything to get you to stop badgering her. Her finger is poised in her coat pocket ready to dial 9. Dude, you're a psycho; Boston isn't an Amish village with a pop. of 48.

Did you See American Idol Last Night? No. Actually, I'm a junkie and I sold my television some four months ago for dope. Or I live in poverty. Or I'm not a complete moron. Or I don't care what judge was drunk and who's an asshole and why you think it's so amazing that YOU have the power to CHOOSE America's next CELEBRITY! Newsflash; buy an mp3 of a song you like. It is ultimately the same thing, without the voluntary loss of your brain cells or the staggeringly expensive phone bill with all of those text update on what dumb-fuck-pinstripe-beret-wearing-girl-voice-loser is doing backstage RIGHT NOW! Or at least, don't drag me into it. I try hard enough to avoid that show.

Wait, I now have to urge to gauge out my eyeballs with a computer key (which seems both difficult and enticing). How about talking about something interesting? Have nothing interesting to say? Well then how about keeping your mouth shut instead of contributing to the intelligent decline of humanity.

Awkward Memoirs Make Great Gifts!

I signed on here to post something about horrible Christmas songs and I was warmed to see someone had beat me to it. There should be, I believe, a world-wide Christmas music burning, along with; the drowning of carolers; the strangling of Salvation Army bell-ringer (I know that sounds horrible, but your stupid bell does not make me more charitable); and the snowball-pelting of old women wearing embroidered Santa Claus sweaters on December 6.

But alas, I'd rather not get hot and bothered about the ridiculousness of Christmas traditions. Instead, I've decided to delve into the frightening world of memoirs. I work at a bookstore and our biography section is quite popular. Perusing the shelves today for some man who "wanted a biography about someone from history" (very specific), I was surprised to find the talentless protagonists of these vain homages to self. Here's a list of some 'riveting' memoirs lining the shelves:

Alec Baldwin: A Promise to Ourselves; A Journey through Fatherhood and Divorce.
Ok. Now I'm assuming this 'promise' is not sobriety. What it is, quite fankly, I care not to know. Tips on fatherhood and divorce by Alec Baldwin....I'm sorry, I can't even comment seriously. Please do not give this book to any one with active reproductive organs.

Life with my Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone.
Who knew Madonna even had a brother? Who knew anyone would care?

Split: A Memoir of Divorce by Suzanne Finnamore.
Be sure to check out her next book; Memoirs of Fights with My Bastard Husband and Other Such Unenjoyable Parts of My Life. Can't wait!

Thin is the New Happy by Valerie Frankel
FINALLY. A positive book for women, can't wait.

Artie Lange: Too fat to fish by Artie Lange
Ok, so the Howard Stern show has that funny, unbridled misogynistic charm. Why? Uh, because of Howard Stern. Not that his lackies don't compliment the hilarious sexual harrassment of those witless, deranged girls fresh off the surgery table. But does this warrant a book? Do you like the Howard Stern show so much you want to read 'Artie's' memoir? MadTV had its moments, and so did...uh, what were those great movies he was in again? Don't forget the inscription on the back cover, "I'll explain this homo bullshit in Book Two," Homophobic and misogynistic--a bargain!

Maureen McCormick: Here's The Story; Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice.
What.

Accidentally on Purpose: A One-Night Stand, my Unplanned Parenthood, and Loving the Best Mistake I Ever Made by Mary F. Pols
Mistake, eh? It's going to be hard to turn that around when she's fourteen. Save the royalties for therapy and ketamine, she'll need plenty of both.

Lynne Spears: Through the Storm
They ditched the title Lynne Spears: Through My Daughter's Wallet, I've Successfully Bribed Someone Into Publishing This 'Book.'

sTori Telling by Tori Spelling
I just sold one, I swear. And to a customer who asked about Tori Spelling's "new book. " Only book. Rest assured; there is only one.

Well Enough Alone: A Cultural History of My Hypochondria by Jennifer Traig.
Doesn't sound irritating at all. Destroyed by the blatant exasperation of her friends and family, she turns to the public to ask, "Do you think I have...?" A must read for sure.

Undiscovered by Debra Winger
Remember Debra Winger?! Wait, me either. Apparently (from the blurb on the inside flap)she is an "Oscar-caliber" performer who wasn't exactly the 'cool-kid' in the acting world. The flap continues, "As this beguiling book reveals, Winger is that rare star who dared to resist the all-consuming industry that is Hollywood becoming her entire reason for being." Despite the horrendous use of grammar in that sentence, it seems that, in the end, Debra Winger would (ironically) publish a tell-all called "Undiscovered" in a last-ditch effort to...um...be discovered. Yawn.


There are so many more, but as the list goes on, so does my dispair for society and not to mention, the trees that could've been used for much more productive things (toilet paper? tissues? those litter-enducing flier hand-outs at music festival exits?)

Deck The Halls With My Disapproval

I know Christmas isn’t for another twenty days but I just can’t wait to listen to those good old traditional Christmas jingles I've been hearing for over twenty years now, so do you think we could all start playing them right now? In fact, I think we should all play Christmas songs as soon as Thanksgiving is over because I never know what to listen to repeatedly between Thanksgiving and Christmas. So... Is this what most people are thinking? No, seriously, I don’t understand why the Christmas music has already begun. It’s annoying enough to have to listen to these ridiculous songs that don’t make sense on the day of, but why does America start playing Christmas music so early? I know they bring back those sweet childhood memories of your mom screaming at your dad about where the tree should go and you’re dad telling her to shut the fuck up before they got that divorce, but these songs are really annoying. I mean, if someone wrote one of these songs today I think the record producer might slap them across the face just for making them listen to it. First we've got this reindeer named Rudolph, who’s got this huge shiny-ass red nose and everyone hates him and makes fun of him for it. And you know what? Santa doesn’t really seem to give a shit. We all know that he knows everything that goes on at the North Pole, so why doesn’t he stop this torment earlier? It’s probably because he’s making fun of Rudolph along with the other reindeer. Yeah, so everyone hates on Rudolph until he’s actually needed because no one can see on that foggy Christmas Eve. And they all try to act like nothing ever happened and Rudolph gladly accepts Santa’s request and guides the sleigh. Can you say pushover? What sort of a message is this for kids? If I were Rudolph I’d be pretty pissed off. I wouldn’t want to drive that sleigh. I’d tell Santa to go buy a fucking flashlight. And what’s the deal with Santa? He sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake? This is pretty fucking creepy, is he a stalker or something? Does he use his army of midget elves to spy on everyone in their homes? I don’t know how I feel about knowing that some old fat dude can see me every second of the day. Should I get some sort of harassment suit or restraining order?

And then there’s the twelve days of Christmas song. Not only do you have to keep repeating the song over and over in case you weren’t annoyed the first eleven times, but have you ever actually thought about these gifts? Seriously, these are actually the worst presents ever. You’ve got a partridge, two turtledoves, three French hens, four calling birds. What’s with all the birds? Do you think you could switch up the gifts, I’ve got all this bird shit on my carpet and these birds are going crazy in my tiny apartment? But no, there just aren't enough birds apparently. Next you get six geese a laying. So now I have to pick up all these eggs along with the bird droppings? Do I look like a fucking farmer to you? Apparently so because now I get seven swans a swimming. Swimming where? In my tiny bathtub? I think not. And as soon as you get used to all the damn birds, eight maids milking cows waltz in. I’m sorry, I don’t need any more milk, I got some at the grocery store and this isn't a dairy farm. But no one is listening to you because immediately nine ladies dance into your house uninvited at this point with about thirty dudes banging drums and piping (who pipes now-a-days?) and the police are knocking on your door because of all the noise complaints. They probably think you’re hosting some sort of illegal cockfighting tournament in your apartment, but instead they see all these birds and weird ladies dancing to horrible banging and they decide not to ask any questions and leave because they probably want to forget they ever saw this ridiculous Christmas spectacle that has forced itself into your apartment through your stereo. Can our generation please start some sort of new Christmas tradition? Or can we at least replace the old songs with new ones? I mean how many times do you want to have to sing "all I want for Christmas are my two front teeth?" I've had mine for about fifteen years now and I'm not a redneck or a meth addict so I think I'll be keeping them for quite a while. This song really only applies to a small group of children.

The Awkward Poetry Corner

Once upon a time I bought a bottle of Jack
And when I opened it a tiny man jumped out
He said his name was Gary
And he had been held prisoner in this very bottle
By and evil old hag
Who cast a spell on him in a land where wishes are worthwhile
He told me I had set him free
And he would grant me one wish
So I told him I wanted a new bottle
But he said he couldn’t do that
So I left him and walked back to the liquor store
Cursing the Brothers Grimm for creating fairy tales

Another Awkward Co Op Experience

Jonpaul is the house pervert. He is a small pudgy man who looks somewhat like an anemic mouse. He basically ignores all the men who live here and talks to all the girls like children. But as a girl you can tell that while he’s talking to you like a child he’s looking at you like he’s wondering what color your nipples are. He wore a mask at the last party our house had and took pictures of girls dancing all night. I forgot to mention that he’s about 40 years old and he has a really annoying child that he brings over the house all the time and it’s really awkward because you’re trying to drink your beer and say those inappropriate things that 20 year olds say and there’s this little girl in a tinker bell dress using all the house’s TV space to save episodes of Blues Clues and asking you how you hold your top on when there’s no straps on it. This is a house for people in their 20’s; it is a sanctuary for those who do not plan on having children right now and most likely feel really uncomfortable around them.

Our house is having this meeting; we do it every two weeks where we vote on silly things and bring up issues like who doesn’t flush the toilet or close the lid on the sugar. The bulimic girl just butted in when someone commented on the bathroom downstairs needing to be flushed. She didn’t seem to realize we were all talking about her. It’s disgusting when you go down there and find pasta in the toilet and cereal in the trash bin all releasing that barf aroma. It’s not how I like to start my mornings.

I peer across the room. Jon Paul is looking around the room like a predator. He stalks all the girls with the slits that are his eyes as he shovels spoonfuls of what looks like baby food or apple-sauce into his creepy face with baby hands. Yes, he has very tiny hands, similar in size and color to that of a baby’s. Some gay dude is going on about getting a subscription to entertainment weekly. I can’t understand what he’s saying because when someone talks with a gay accent I lose focus. There’s something about that high-pitched jabber that refuses to enter my ears. I’m not a homophobe. I just have trouble distinguishing the words over the fast paced banter. My roommate from India is sitting across from me. I secretly resent her because she constantly eats Indian food in our room making the room smell permanently like fart. When I’m alone in my room I always fear some hot guy is going to knock on my door and when I open it and they get a whiff of the room they will think I’ve been farting in their all day.

Jon Paul seductively shoots his hand into the air to show how strongly he agrees with some stupid issue I wasn’t paying attention to. He eyes me; I look away. He thinks we’re playing a game of eye fuck tag. I think I want to stand up in the middle of the meeting and call him a fucking creeper. Alas, this game will continue, but only in his mind.

The food steward just announced that they messed up the ordering of our food yet again. Everyone gets on her case. It’s a little vicious. The bulimic girl is ripping her a new asshole. Maybe there’d be enough food if you stopped eating it all and throwing it up. I won’t say that out loud but I’m sure that’s what the whole house is thinking. I look around the room. Everyone looks bored as shit. I look over all the strange and peculiar people that live here. There’s Santiago. He goes OCD on all the house chores, spending double the time. He never talks but sort or walks in robotic strides with his head down. He always has this backpack on that is so large I believe it holds the secrets to the universe. He carries the world on his back to and from wherever he goes; no one knows, but then again no one asks. He keeps to himself but he’s usually around. Then there’s Pat. I think he has Aspergers or some mild form of Autism. Once when my friend John tried to smoke weed in the basement, Pat attacked him. John said, “What the fuck, why would you do that?!” and Pat replied “because I hate myself”. He’s incredibly awkward, but in that way where even awkward people like myself feel uncomfortable around him. He’s definitely not from this planet. And it’s not in that, “oh you’re from this place and you’re into these hobbies and I just don’t get it, we’re so different” kinda way. It’s “whoa, I have no idea what you’re thinking right now your eyes are blanks” sorta way. Wow, the bulimic girls is still yelling at the food stewards. She’s so fucking angry about the food. You can almost tell she has an eating disorder because nobody cares this much about the meals. I really don’t give a shit about this. I’m only here because the house is angry that my stupid friend Jeff keeps eating here for free and they want to talk about it at this meeting. Jeff decided not to show up at the last minute so I have to speak on his behalf even though I’m not the one who always invites him over. The house president is making this an issue the house will have to vote on. She creeps me out because she’s super religious and looks exactly like me. People for a while didn’t even know we were two different people, like it was some weird doppelganger shit where half the time we seemed like a responsible Christian house president and then the other half of the time we were an awkward freak show. People probably thought we were severely bipolar or something. We’re supposed to talk about making a mural somewhere in the house. The house decides they like the idea of a Dr. Seuss mural above the kitchen. Great, now I can throw up when I stumble into the kitchen all hung over and have to look at some gay nursery picture. I mean we just discussed how annoying this guy’s kid is and now we’re turning our kitchen into a sanctuary for children. It’s such a Co Opy idea. Look at us, we’re funny and quirky, creative and we think outside the box. Well the Co Op is a box in its own way. It’s predictable. It’s members are of a few general types of hippies and nerds and we do annoying group activities. That’s a box. A group of 8 including myself protest the decision and call a recount. We lose. There’s going to be yet another lame symbol of cooperation to look at every morning when I’m most bitter about the world.

Finally we’ve reached the last topic of discussion. Jonpaul is asked to leave, indicating this is some issue that involves him and as a rule you can’t be in the room when the “council” is discussing you. After he has left, all the girls begin to talk about how he is a pervert and makes everyone uncomfortable. Most of the guys don’t like him because he’s a creepy asshole so as a house we vote that he can’t come back to live here next year. The house president tells him when he returns into the room. He seems to take it pretty well. Something in his face reminds me that he’s human and I actually feel bad that we all did this to him as a group. I don’t know why because he is such an annoying pervert, but it’s not like he was a bad person. I guess the world is a cruel place sometimes.