Hey, it's me again. Don't look so disappointed, this is MY BLOG, as I've reiterated countless times on numerous occasions. I expect you've come for some entertainment, a word or two of advice, pearls of wisdom, perhaps even a cookie? Well, you've come to the right place!
(If you'd like a cookie, just drop me a comment and I'll send you one, right away.)
Just in case you're currently experiencing a brain spasm, and therefore wondering what I'm wearing as I sit here and type this, I'll tell you. Pajamas. Yes. It should be an inalienable right; a nationally, no globally, embraced holiday. One should set aside one day each week to parade around in their pajamas.
"Scientific" research has concluded that health and longevity correlate proportionally to how much time one spends in their pajamas. Allow me to pause and demonstrate how one should properly celebrate GWYPD.(Global Wear Your Pajamas Day)
*Enter Pause*
Lois proceeds to jump on the bed, climb a tree, jump on the trampoline, jump on Jimmy, run from Jimmy, and do a happy dance as she manages to escape Jimmy's clutches by locking the door to her room; all while wearing her pajamas.
*End Pause*
This is how things should be done. It must be mentioned, however, that Jimmy strongly objects to any person weighing in excess of 200 lbs. jumping on him. Unfortunately, this means that people who weigh more than 200 lbs. are discouraged from participating in GWYPD. In fact, they are prohibited from celebrating GWYPD altogether; which brings me to the reason I am writing this post in the first place.
I MADE THE PRESIDENT'S LIST!!!
Oh, how I enjoy giving people mental whiplash. Naturally, the above paragraphs are not even triflingly related to the former sentence. That's the beauty of experiencing mental whiplash, you don't even know what hit you until I explain it.
Speaking of explaining things, I'm sure you're wondering at the monstrously deplorable state of disrepair our school system suffers from, considering the fact that I made the President's List. Contrary to what you're thinking, I did not hire an expertly skilled ninja to threaten my College President with assassination should he fail to add my name to his list. I'd looked into it, of course, but it's far too expensive...and, at a stretch, morally questionable. No, I earned my A's by working hard, praying, and studying; which apparently is the second most recommended way to make the President's List.
A is for Accounting...
Without a doubt, this class was the hardest I took this semester. Accounting is organized, precise, and logical. It spits on creativity. Basically, Accounting is a free-spirit's worst nightmare. If you step a single toe out of line, mess up one teensy number, incorrectly label an account...you've failed. Miserably. In this situation, you, the miserable failure, will have to go back through all the work you've done, retrace all the information you have, and cross-examine every single account until the total number of debits equals the total number of credits. If you've done this, good for you, nobody cares. You're only possibly correct, if not entirely wrong. Just because you've managed to come up with the right sum for both columns, doesn't mean that you've correctly debited and/or credited the correct account. So you go back and look everything over, making sure that the total of each respective account has been properly recorded. Again. By this time, your eyes will be popping out of your head, and your brain should feel like mush. If you've reached this stage, rejoice! You're nearly done! Total the columns and pray that your calculator is working properly. If the sums match, you're done. And that's only a tiny, basic part of Accounting. I mean, we haven't even gone into evaluating accounts based on market fluctuation. A word to those who think Accounting is easy: you disturb me.
The Lord gave me the grace to work hard and study, enough to barely make it out of the class with an A. Hopefully, that's the last I'll ever have to see of Accounting.
Computer Information Science...
Or, Computer Information Systems, but this is what my Professor called it. My Professor for this class was a sweet old man who hadn't the minutest clue what he was doing in a class of 20 teenagers. Honestly. The confused, slightly perplexed look he wore perpetually testified to this fact. He didn't teach us...he gave us a PowerPoint presentation of our CIS book, which we had purchased for an absurd amount of money, and read from it in class. For 2 1/2 hours. Interspersed throughout the fascinating monotony of this lecture were comments on how different computers were 20 years ago, and his amazement at the speed with which CD's had replaced floppy disks. Seriously, during the third week of class, as soon as he began talking, for 2 1/2 hours all I heard was a buzzing sound in my ears. This would have been problematic, had not all my tests been open book. And my assignments idiot-proof. In order to fail an assignment, you'd have to not do it. In order to fail a test, you'd have to be illiterate. A disturbing fact was that some people were, indeed, failing the class. Over achieving show-offs. They worked much harder than us 'A' students. Since I had aced all of my tests, my Professor informed me that it was unnecessary for me to complete my two remaining assignments or take my final. So, with great shame, and a healthy amount of guilt, I accepted my 'A' in his class.
Volleyball...
The difficulty of this class nearly drove me insane. I literally had to roll out of bed at 7 in the morning, pull on some loose clothing, eat, and go to school. THEN, I actually had to show up for class! Can you imagine? For all of this hard work and dedication, my reward was a measly 'A'. Will horrors never cease!
Mathematics...
Boy, am I glad this class was over with 10 weeks ago.
So, really, the only A's I'm proud of achieving this semester are the ones from Accounting and Mathematics. The ones I actually worked for.
Congratulate yourself. You've just finished reading the brief synopsis of all my classes for this semester. Did I mention I made the President's List? Funny thing about the President's List. For the first time in my life, I've one-upped Jimmy on something, albeit by default. As a student, you have to take at least 12 units worth of classes in order to make the President's List. Jimmy's piano class counted for 1.5 units, causing him to miss making the President's List by .5 units! Haha! I'm deliriously happy. Uh-oh.
*Lois runs to her room and locks the door*
No, actually, Jimmy deserved to make the President's List this semester, and I'm disappointed for him. There's always next semester.
I want to leave you all with this thought. It's Mom's thought, actually. I was borrowing her MacArthur's Study Bible this morning, and a little note fell out of it that completely made my day.
' "For when we were still without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly. - Romans 5:6"
Without strength to train, to live right...Christ died for my ungodly moments, hours, days, years!'
Thank You, Lord, for a great first semester at Cerritos!
**~L~**-**~L~** Top Ten Things I Love About College **~L~**-**~L~**
1. Sitting in the amphitheater and eating dinner with Jimmy, while he stares intently at random passerby trying to get them to glance in his direction by using his formidable brain power.
2. Laughing at Jimmy's antics until I choke on my food.
3. Opening Gatorade bottles for girls who are too skinny to do it themselves.
4. That point of despair before receiving your results when you know you've failed your test and will fail every other test you take for all eternity, until the realization that it's all in Lord's hands hits you like a ton of bricks.
5. The determination and drive that overcomes you when you do fail your test, and the commitment you make to yourself to study harder, and ace the next one.
6. Not having to work out for a full 18 weeks because you're rushing from class to class like a frenzied rabbit and skipping breakfast and lunch.
7. Just touching the ball so that it barely tips over the net and watching 5 people dive for it simultaneously.
8. Never letting my schooling interfere with my education.
9. Pretending to fall asleep in the library, while in reality eavesdropping on a debate about social science.
10. Making the President's List.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Sobering Thoughts
"He who is slothful in his work
Is a brother to him who is a great destroyer."
Proverbs 18:9
So, this week was finals week. I studied fairly hard, to pass a class I had no interest in taking in the first place, to learn a subject I have no aptitude for. Such is life. I came across this verse today, from Proverbs chapter 18. Now, I have read Proverbs at least a hundred times; but perhaps the fact that this week was finals week prompted me to do a study on it.
Who do we think of as Destroyers? Right off the bat, most of us would say Hitler, Castro, Mao Zedong, Ceauşescu, and Stalin. Dictators and Murderers, destroyers of lives and freedom. Could I take it a step further? Who is the ultimate Destroyer? Satan, of course. Right about here, my train of thought screeched to a halt and I experienced mental whiplash. 'Woah, God, wait a second. You can't possibly put being slothful in near the same category as being like Hitler, or Satan, can You?' The thought horrified me. I mean, I nearly lost it just thinking about the many times I've been slothful in my work. I pulled out the dictionary to do a little research.
Destroyer: 2. a person or thing that destroys (I don't think the military definition applies.)
Synonyms- arsonist, brute, demolisher, savage, terrorist, wrecker, vandal, wild man.
Slothful: disinclined to work or exertion; "faineant kings under whose rule the country languished"; "an indolent hanger-on"; "too lazy to wash the dishes"; "shiftless idle youth".
Synonyms- ambling, apathetic, bone-lazy, cadging, do-nothing, faltering, flagging, foot-dragging, good-for-nothing, idle, inactive, indifferent, indolent, inert, lackadaisical, languorous, lax, lazy, leisurely, lethargic, shiftless.
I went to Mom for some wisdom and asked to hear her thoughts on this. She asked me where being slothful lead to. Let's take slothfulness of mind, for example. If a person is slothful in guarding their hearts and minds from immoral influences, they will become immoral, wicked beings. After all, Hitler was once a child. He was once a person whose mind was not poisoned against all that is good and pure. If not for the grace of God, we could all be Hitler. Here's one that hits too close to home with me. Being slothful with my time. A person who wastes their time is a person who is wasting their life. If the only things worth doing are the ones that count for eternity, we should avoid wasting time like the plague. It's enough to cure you of several lifetimes of addictions to Buzz. And a whole lot more.
Anyway, that's my sobering thought for the day. Summer is practically here, and I'm done with school. I'm praying that I won't waste the free time I now have by lazing around being slothful and doing nothing for the Lord. I pray that you also will be actively engaged in living for Him. I can hardly wait to read Proverbs 19 tomorrow. Read proverbs, friends, a sobering thought per day helps keep temptation at bay.
Is a brother to him who is a great destroyer."
Proverbs 18:9
So, this week was finals week. I studied fairly hard, to pass a class I had no interest in taking in the first place, to learn a subject I have no aptitude for. Such is life. I came across this verse today, from Proverbs chapter 18. Now, I have read Proverbs at least a hundred times; but perhaps the fact that this week was finals week prompted me to do a study on it.
Who do we think of as Destroyers? Right off the bat, most of us would say Hitler, Castro, Mao Zedong, Ceauşescu, and Stalin. Dictators and Murderers, destroyers of lives and freedom. Could I take it a step further? Who is the ultimate Destroyer? Satan, of course. Right about here, my train of thought screeched to a halt and I experienced mental whiplash. 'Woah, God, wait a second. You can't possibly put being slothful in near the same category as being like Hitler, or Satan, can You?' The thought horrified me. I mean, I nearly lost it just thinking about the many times I've been slothful in my work. I pulled out the dictionary to do a little research.
Destroyer: 2. a person or thing that destroys (I don't think the military definition applies.)
Synonyms- arsonist, brute, demolisher, savage, terrorist, wrecker, vandal, wild man.
Slothful: disinclined to work or exertion; "faineant kings under whose rule the country languished"; "an indolent hanger-on"; "too lazy to wash the dishes"; "shiftless idle youth".
Synonyms- ambling, apathetic, bone-lazy, cadging, do-nothing, faltering, flagging, foot-dragging, good-for-nothing, idle, inactive, indifferent, indolent, inert, lackadaisical, languorous, lax, lazy, leisurely, lethargic, shiftless.
I went to Mom for some wisdom and asked to hear her thoughts on this. She asked me where being slothful lead to. Let's take slothfulness of mind, for example. If a person is slothful in guarding their hearts and minds from immoral influences, they will become immoral, wicked beings. After all, Hitler was once a child. He was once a person whose mind was not poisoned against all that is good and pure. If not for the grace of God, we could all be Hitler. Here's one that hits too close to home with me. Being slothful with my time. A person who wastes their time is a person who is wasting their life. If the only things worth doing are the ones that count for eternity, we should avoid wasting time like the plague. It's enough to cure you of several lifetimes of addictions to Buzz. And a whole lot more.
Anyway, that's my sobering thought for the day. Summer is practically here, and I'm done with school. I'm praying that I won't waste the free time I now have by lazing around being slothful and doing nothing for the Lord. I pray that you also will be actively engaged in living for Him. I can hardly wait to read Proverbs 19 tomorrow. Read proverbs, friends, a sobering thought per day helps keep temptation at bay.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like A Big Pizza Pie
...that's Amore. Jimmy has a blog. Check it out. HERE!
Hullo Chumsy-Wumsy! I have nothing to post about...so this is just going to be a non-post, as it were.
"Calvin: You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood.
Hobbes: What mood is that?
Calvin: Last-minute panic." Right-o. After all, procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday. Since I like to take it a step further, I'm going to post about Spring Break...which I wanted to do awhile ago. I hope you enjoy wasting your time reading this...because obviously time you enjoyed wasting technically doesn't qualify as wasted time. Am I right, or am I right? Yeah I'm wrong, so sue me.
Spring Break Madness:
In order to celebrate the glorious freedom Spring Break affords young, hardworking, diligent, conscientious, brainy, clever, resourceful, punctual, too-humble-for-their-own-good college students like me, I invited myself over to the McIntire's house for a few days. Naturally they were absolutely thrilled, insisting that I invade their residence as soon as their busy schedule permitted. I obliged and arrived at their house Thursday night, around 7ish. I had thought they lived only 15 minutes away, on account of how much fun we girls had in the car driving up to their place the last time I slept over, so I convinced Dad to leave the kids alone at home (Mom and Jimmy were gone) to drive me over. *cough* Apparently, the McIntires don't live 15 minutes away from us. That caused a teensy bit of a fiasco, especially when Jonathan heard about the situation and offered his two cents.
Jonathan(whispering): "What if they're dead!?"
Thankfully, it all worked out. When Dad got back home the house was still standing, the shed hadn't burned down, and the kidders were in one piece. Separately. That is to say they were each their own whole, separate, unharmed, individual piece. I didn't mean that they were all jumbled together with duct tape or anything like that. Ah, the difficulties of grammar.
Meanwhile, back at the McIntire Residence...WE PLAYED FORT! Feel free to be jealous. For those of you who've lacked the pleasure, Fort is a strategy game that requires physical and intellectual stamina. Players could also benefit from acquiring an accurate throwing arm. It is a game so extraordinarily brilliant that only someone whose mad creative genius far surpasses my own could have thought to conceive it. Sacrilege, of course, since no such person exists. Credit must, however, go to Jonathan for coming very close with his superbly prodigious magnum opus of a game. The object of the game is for each person from the three teams to pummel opposing players with stuffed animals in the hopes that one of their throws miraculously hits its mark, thereby eliminating a player from an opposing team. Last time, Jonathan's aggressive bomb launching managed to knock down the walls of mine and Amy's fort. Terrified, I threw a blanket over myself and proceeded to do nothing but scream for two minutes straight while Amy tried valiantly, but ultimately failed, to defend our position. Jonathan won, to my utter disgrace and humiliation. This time around, I was determined to reclaim my dignity.
As I mentioned, there are three teams. Teams one and two each have a bunk bed that they convert into a fort using sheets and blankets that overlap in complicated ways. Amy is our resident fort maker extraordinaire. The last team, the one Jonathan is usually on, has no fort. With relatively little protection, Team 3 has fantastic offense, but insufficient defense leaves them vulnerable to early elimination. With the forts made, and our stuffed animals at the ready, the battle was about to begin. As per tradition, Jonathan picked a spooky song from the Braveheart soundtrack, and hit 'play'. Bombs Away! Amy and I 'killed' Sarah...that left Jonathan with Michelle as his lone teammate. Despite doing his best to remain in hiding, Daniel was 'killed' by a stray bomb, leaving Cristin to fend for herself in the other fort. A period of pointless volleying back and forth with words and cotton bombs ensued as each team struggled to devise a strategy. Jonathan, greedy for a repeat ending of our last epic battle, began to batter our fort with renewed purpose. Amy, eager for vengeance, inched forward a little too much. She must have stepped on sheet corner, because a portion of what was our fort suddenly fell away; exposing a gaping hole in our defenses. Amy, shocked, barely had time to register Jonathan's Scottish battle cry of victory as his beanie baby sailed through the air and finished her off.
Adrenaline rushed through my veins...I would not let him win. With a yelp I grabbed one of our remaining stuffed animals and threw it as hard as I could. As if in slow motion, my missile sliced through the air and, bulls-eye! It hit Jonathan's Adam's apple. (The small choking sound that escaped his lips was particularly satisfactory.) I was elated, victory was within sight! I threw a curve ball bomb, and, miraculously, Bunny the Rabbit sailed through the air in a perfect arc, hitting Cristin! So jubilant was I, rejoicing in my sure to be legendary conquest, that I failed to notice the silent, deadly enemy. Too late I turned around, only to feel the sickening thump of a cotton bomb slamming against my abdomen. Michelle, the patient assassin, had bided her time until opportunity presented itself. When the time was ripe, she pounced! So, in the century's most anticlimactic ending since Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Michelle stole my triumph causing Jonathan, by default, to win...again.
"Who says life is fair, where is that written?"
-William Goldman
How true, how grievously, insufferably, dreadfully, unfortunately true. You can go away now, I've so depressed myself by remembering the incident that I can't be bothered to end this post properly. I really can't be bothered.
All McIntires who read this post are required by law to leave a comment.
~**~**~**~**L**~**~**~** Ten MORE Things I Hate About College
1. Please DO NOT show me your belly button. I have one too, and I don't particularly need proof that yours exists.
2. Makeup should be applied with a brush, not a shovel.
3. Makeup should be worn only by girls. You're thinking that goes without saying right? Huh. Wrong.
4. Want a culture shock? Stop by the cafeteria and listen in on a group of students as they eat lunch.
Girl 1: Ugh. Can you buhlieve this? My taco is sooo soggeh.
Girl 2: Rully? That is sooo sad.
Guy: Fo reals? Dude, that stinks.
Girl 2: TacoBell is so, like, wrong.
Ahhh! people! It's a TACO! Are you kidding me?? Just. Eat. It.
5. All of you Neo-Nazi dudes with the creepy hairstyles and liberally applied eyeliner, it should be illegal to look that weird. What are you trying to do, terrify small children?
6. Girls, this is not high school. I will not yield my right to use the computer simply because you are wearing Jimmy Choo Sandals, and Valentino designed your sundress. The whole pout and glare thing doesn't phase me either. I was here first, find your own computer.
7. If one more skinny, peace sign flashing, hippy-looking, dread-lock sporting, Greenpeace advocate tries to get me to petition against the commercial exploitation of endangered baboons, I will break his clipboard over my knee.
8. I have to buy my own scantrons?? '“Remember, for the midterm on Thursday, you need to bring a scantron to the exam. I won’t have any for you,” my professor reminded us last week. Having paid ridiculous sums of money for tuition, with the sum likely to increase next year, the one thing I would expect the school to do is to provide students with the necessary test-taking materials at no cost whatsoever. Don’t you agree?' I do indeed.
9. It's terribly frustrating to forget your student I.D. on the day that In 'N Out is on campus giving away free lunches.
10. A few quotes...because I'm drawing a blank on college-related atrocities at the moment.
"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."
— Mark Twain
"There are few sources of energy so powerful as a procrastinating college student."
— Paul Graham
"Helen Keller was blind and deaf when she graduated from college with honors. So what's your problem?"
— Charles Stanley
Good day, Readers! May you have a blessed week!
Hullo Chumsy-Wumsy! I have nothing to post about...so this is just going to be a non-post, as it were.
"Calvin: You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood.
Hobbes: What mood is that?
Calvin: Last-minute panic." Right-o. After all, procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday. Since I like to take it a step further, I'm going to post about Spring Break...which I wanted to do awhile ago. I hope you enjoy wasting your time reading this...because obviously time you enjoyed wasting technically doesn't qualify as wasted time. Am I right, or am I right? Yeah I'm wrong, so sue me.
Spring Break Madness:
In order to celebrate the glorious freedom Spring Break affords young, hardworking, diligent, conscientious, brainy, clever, resourceful, punctual, too-humble-for-their-own-good college students like me, I invited myself over to the McIntire's house for a few days. Naturally they were absolutely thrilled, insisting that I invade their residence as soon as their busy schedule permitted. I obliged and arrived at their house Thursday night, around 7ish. I had thought they lived only 15 minutes away, on account of how much fun we girls had in the car driving up to their place the last time I slept over, so I convinced Dad to leave the kids alone at home (Mom and Jimmy were gone) to drive me over. *cough* Apparently, the McIntires don't live 15 minutes away from us. That caused a teensy bit of a fiasco, especially when Jonathan heard about the situation and offered his two cents.
Jonathan(whispering): "What if they're dead!?"
Thankfully, it all worked out. When Dad got back home the house was still standing, the shed hadn't burned down, and the kidders were in one piece. Separately. That is to say they were each their own whole, separate, unharmed, individual piece. I didn't mean that they were all jumbled together with duct tape or anything like that. Ah, the difficulties of grammar.
Meanwhile, back at the McIntire Residence...WE PLAYED FORT! Feel free to be jealous. For those of you who've lacked the pleasure, Fort is a strategy game that requires physical and intellectual stamina. Players could also benefit from acquiring an accurate throwing arm. It is a game so extraordinarily brilliant that only someone whose mad creative genius far surpasses my own could have thought to conceive it. Sacrilege, of course, since no such person exists. Credit must, however, go to Jonathan for coming very close with his superbly prodigious magnum opus of a game. The object of the game is for each person from the three teams to pummel opposing players with stuffed animals in the hopes that one of their throws miraculously hits its mark, thereby eliminating a player from an opposing team. Last time, Jonathan's aggressive bomb launching managed to knock down the walls of mine and Amy's fort. Terrified, I threw a blanket over myself and proceeded to do nothing but scream for two minutes straight while Amy tried valiantly, but ultimately failed, to defend our position. Jonathan won, to my utter disgrace and humiliation. This time around, I was determined to reclaim my dignity.
As I mentioned, there are three teams. Teams one and two each have a bunk bed that they convert into a fort using sheets and blankets that overlap in complicated ways. Amy is our resident fort maker extraordinaire. The last team, the one Jonathan is usually on, has no fort. With relatively little protection, Team 3 has fantastic offense, but insufficient defense leaves them vulnerable to early elimination. With the forts made, and our stuffed animals at the ready, the battle was about to begin. As per tradition, Jonathan picked a spooky song from the Braveheart soundtrack, and hit 'play'. Bombs Away! Amy and I 'killed' Sarah...that left Jonathan with Michelle as his lone teammate. Despite doing his best to remain in hiding, Daniel was 'killed' by a stray bomb, leaving Cristin to fend for herself in the other fort. A period of pointless volleying back and forth with words and cotton bombs ensued as each team struggled to devise a strategy. Jonathan, greedy for a repeat ending of our last epic battle, began to batter our fort with renewed purpose. Amy, eager for vengeance, inched forward a little too much. She must have stepped on sheet corner, because a portion of what was our fort suddenly fell away; exposing a gaping hole in our defenses. Amy, shocked, barely had time to register Jonathan's Scottish battle cry of victory as his beanie baby sailed through the air and finished her off.
Adrenaline rushed through my veins...I would not let him win. With a yelp I grabbed one of our remaining stuffed animals and threw it as hard as I could. As if in slow motion, my missile sliced through the air and, bulls-eye! It hit Jonathan's Adam's apple. (The small choking sound that escaped his lips was particularly satisfactory.) I was elated, victory was within sight! I threw a curve ball bomb, and, miraculously, Bunny the Rabbit sailed through the air in a perfect arc, hitting Cristin! So jubilant was I, rejoicing in my sure to be legendary conquest, that I failed to notice the silent, deadly enemy. Too late I turned around, only to feel the sickening thump of a cotton bomb slamming against my abdomen. Michelle, the patient assassin, had bided her time until opportunity presented itself. When the time was ripe, she pounced! So, in the century's most anticlimactic ending since Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Michelle stole my triumph causing Jonathan, by default, to win...again.
"Who says life is fair, where is that written?"
-William Goldman
How true, how grievously, insufferably, dreadfully, unfortunately true. You can go away now, I've so depressed myself by remembering the incident that I can't be bothered to end this post properly. I really can't be bothered.
All McIntires who read this post are required by law to leave a comment.
~**~**~**~**L**~**~**~** Ten MORE Things I Hate About College
1. Please DO NOT show me your belly button. I have one too, and I don't particularly need proof that yours exists.
2. Makeup should be applied with a brush, not a shovel.
3. Makeup should be worn only by girls. You're thinking that goes without saying right? Huh. Wrong.
4. Want a culture shock? Stop by the cafeteria and listen in on a group of students as they eat lunch.
Girl 1: Ugh. Can you buhlieve this? My taco is sooo soggeh.
Girl 2: Rully? That is sooo sad.
Guy: Fo reals? Dude, that stinks.
Girl 2: TacoBell is so, like, wrong.
Ahhh! people! It's a TACO! Are you kidding me?? Just. Eat. It.
5. All of you Neo-Nazi dudes with the creepy hairstyles and liberally applied eyeliner, it should be illegal to look that weird. What are you trying to do, terrify small children?
6. Girls, this is not high school. I will not yield my right to use the computer simply because you are wearing Jimmy Choo Sandals, and Valentino designed your sundress. The whole pout and glare thing doesn't phase me either. I was here first, find your own computer.
7. If one more skinny, peace sign flashing, hippy-looking, dread-lock sporting, Greenpeace advocate tries to get me to petition against the commercial exploitation of endangered baboons, I will break his clipboard over my knee.
8. I have to buy my own scantrons?? '“Remember, for the midterm on Thursday, you need to bring a scantron to the exam. I won’t have any for you,” my professor reminded us last week. Having paid ridiculous sums of money for tuition, with the sum likely to increase next year, the one thing I would expect the school to do is to provide students with the necessary test-taking materials at no cost whatsoever. Don’t you agree?' I do indeed.
9. It's terribly frustrating to forget your student I.D. on the day that In 'N Out is on campus giving away free lunches.
10. A few quotes...because I'm drawing a blank on college-related atrocities at the moment.
"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."
— Mark Twain
"There are few sources of energy so powerful as a procrastinating college student."
— Paul Graham
"Helen Keller was blind and deaf when she graduated from college with honors. So what's your problem?"
— Charles Stanley
Good day, Readers! May you have a blessed week!
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Adventures of Purple Girl
Hello Reader(s)!
Welcome to the fabulously entertaining, tremendously witty, marvelously informative, stupendously productive corner of the the world wide web that is my blog. You'll pardon my conceit. Yes, you will.
I've been up to quite a few things lately, so this will be a rather long post. Ah, ah, ah!...you're here, and here you'll stay until the remainder of this obnoxiously long entry comes to a close. Good manners and fine breeding prevents you from exiting this page without first fulfilling your obligatory duty. Now, now, we've been through this before. Chin up, wipe your eyes. There's a stout-hearted chap/chapess. And so, I begin.
Several weeks ago, the Ouatu Family graciously took me, and two other girls and a guy on a ski trip to Big Bear. Being my typically pestiferous self, I brought along my snowboard, the only person in the entire group who went snowboarding. It was a total blast getting to know the girls. The snowboarding was AWESOME! As an added bonus, it snowed the whole day we were up there! Naturally, I have no pictures. It was a wonderful time, full of fun and fellowship. Thank you Ouatu Family! The night before, I had gone to get my bindings adjusted. Now, I had received my board from my uncle around the age of 13. He's never been very particular, so I doubt the board was new when he bought it. Luckily, he had average size feet, so with three or four thick wool socks my feet fit quite nicely into the boots. Plus, I didn't have to spend a cent on new bindings. Bottom line, my board is an antique.
Anyway, I come in to the shop, greet the guy behind the counter, and unzip my case to pull out my board. He took a look at it, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him I'd like my stance to be wider, and would he please angle my ramp/disk thingie more to the right. As he's adjusting my board, some guy from behind him reaches over to grab something and spots my snowboard.
"DUDE, that board is like, ten years old man!" (To a snowboarder who spends his yearly salary on new gear, this amount of time is unfathomable.) He looks at me in amazement before leaving. Just then two other guys walk in; they also see my board.
"Hey! You guys are still renting step-in bindings, or is that a personal board?" The guy behind the counter dropped my board like a hot coal.
"Oh n-no," he stammered, "it's her personal board." The friend of the guy who asked the question gave me a little smile.
"That board is ANCIENT! Really, really old. You should try *insert the name of some ridiculously expensive brand name bindings, the cost of which could feed a small country, or Jimmy, for a week here*; these guys hooked me up last year." The man had a Spanish accent, because HE WAS FROM CHILE! Like, by what authority do people from Chile give advice on snowboards and bindings to Californians? Do they even HAVE snow in Chile?? Yeah, I was steamed, because they made fun of my totally awesome board, that I knew they were all secretly jealous of anyway. Only not. Whatever.
While we were going up the lift, Johnny and Andrew entertained me by relating the plot of a film they had seen. A mild horror movie about three men who go up the mountain on the lift just before the park closes...leaving them stranded near the top. They all freeze to death, and movie concludes with the image of a frozen hand, eerily rising from the fog. Charming. Precisely the sort of story one wants to hear as one embarks on the very first run of the day. Nothing like some twisted fiction to put a spring in your step. Consequently, they let me know that the probability of something like that ever happening is very low, and of course it could never happen in real life. Alas, the damage was done. We had a great time skiing/snowboarding together. (At least I did, I don't know about them, they were stuck with me.) Without exception,(except me) all snowboarders are arrogant, selfish, boisterous creatures. Imagine, if you can, the presumption, the nerve, the amount of pride it must take to plop oneself in the middle of the slope, without regard for anyone else. Next time I see one of those punks I'm going to let loose what I've restrained for 10 years: "Hey you! Yeah, I'm talking to the walking Burton advertisement! Get out of my way before I run you and your precious beanie over!" Ooh, that'll feel good. I can hardly wait for next year.
A few days after I came back, I went snowboarding with Florin at Mountain High. (If you don't know who he is, he's the man renting a room from us, and I've known him for 16 years.) Somehow, Florin and I got separated. It was getting close to ten 'o clock, the time the park closes, when I decided to take one last run down the mountain. I got into the lift, meant for 4 people, by myself. That's always fun. When the attendants aren't looking, I turn sideways and prop my board up against the back of the chair so that I'm lying down. It's a ridiculously comfortable position. The attendants will yell, scream, and generally make pests of themselves if you do that when they're looking. Try it when you're out of their sight range. Speaking of which, visibility was 30 feet, max. Less than that at the top. The fog was so thick you could cut it. The scene: I'm merrily enjoying my ride up the mountain, when suddenly, the lift stops. Ah, no big deal, it's stopped before. But it doesn't start up again! Two minutes go by...nothing. Four minutes...nothing. Six minutes in, and I hear a faint shout: a rude variation of "Hey! What's going on?" after that, nothing. Eight minutes in, I've switched out of my cozy lounge and into the much more appropriate sitting-on-a-lift fetal position. I began calculating the distance from the lift to the ground, when sheer terror overwhelmed me. All I could think about was a frozen hand! THANKS FOR NOTHING ANDREW AND JOHNNY!
*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~***
And now, I suppose I must explain the title of this blog post, before you die of curiosity. It's a rather boring tale, so keep your hopes down where they belong. I wear almost exactly the same clothes for every single volleyball class. My outfit includes a hideous pair of stretchy purple bell bottoms, and an over sized purple t-shirt. Bell bottoms used to be quite popular with hippies, though they at least had the good sense to make use of denim. Somehow a crazed lunatic got ahold of some stretchy cotton, made a pair of bell bottoms, and forced my mother, at gunpoint, to buy them. Waste not want not, so I'm wearing them. First day of Volleyball class. This skinny, Hispanic boy wanted to get my attention. The ball was flying towards me, and I had no idea. Brilliance has a way of striking people at opportune moments.
"Hey! Purple Girl!" he shouted. That got my attention, I assumed the position I vaguely remembered Jonathan teaching me, and sent the ball flying across the net. Victory!
Moving right along, my friend and I had a test for CIS(Computer Information Science). I scored 54/55, and she 51/55. The statistics show that in a class of 30 people, the first 3 people who stand up will receive D's. Numbers 4-11 receive A's. And all the rest get C's, with a few scattered F's. As everyone knows, all the information garnered from sources like the Internet, and statistics, is infallible. Does your humble self care to contest this fact? Smart cookie. :)
Unfortunately, dear reader, the randomness has petered out and our time has drawn to a close. Halt. Mind you be polite and let me finish before you run out of the room in a frenzy of delight. Ha ha. You are now my prisoner. I will finish with a quote I found very amusing, to celebrate the joyous occasion commemorating the completion of my Algebra 2 class. Which, by the way, I'm very confident I'll get an A in.
Anyone who cannot cope with mathematics is not fully human. At best he is a tolerable subhuman who has learned to wear shoes, bathe, and not make messes in the house. ~Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love
Apparently, I am a tolerable subhuman who still makes messes in the house. :)
Welcome to the fabulously entertaining, tremendously witty, marvelously informative, stupendously productive corner of the the world wide web that is my blog. You'll pardon my conceit. Yes, you will.
I've been up to quite a few things lately, so this will be a rather long post. Ah, ah, ah!...you're here, and here you'll stay until the remainder of this obnoxiously long entry comes to a close. Good manners and fine breeding prevents you from exiting this page without first fulfilling your obligatory duty. Now, now, we've been through this before. Chin up, wipe your eyes. There's a stout-hearted chap/chapess. And so, I begin.
Several weeks ago, the Ouatu Family graciously took me, and two other girls and a guy on a ski trip to Big Bear. Being my typically pestiferous self, I brought along my snowboard, the only person in the entire group who went snowboarding. It was a total blast getting to know the girls. The snowboarding was AWESOME! As an added bonus, it snowed the whole day we were up there! Naturally, I have no pictures. It was a wonderful time, full of fun and fellowship. Thank you Ouatu Family! The night before, I had gone to get my bindings adjusted. Now, I had received my board from my uncle around the age of 13. He's never been very particular, so I doubt the board was new when he bought it. Luckily, he had average size feet, so with three or four thick wool socks my feet fit quite nicely into the boots. Plus, I didn't have to spend a cent on new bindings. Bottom line, my board is an antique.
Anyway, I come in to the shop, greet the guy behind the counter, and unzip my case to pull out my board. He took a look at it, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him I'd like my stance to be wider, and would he please angle my ramp/disk thingie more to the right. As he's adjusting my board, some guy from behind him reaches over to grab something and spots my snowboard.
"DUDE, that board is like, ten years old man!" (To a snowboarder who spends his yearly salary on new gear, this amount of time is unfathomable.) He looks at me in amazement before leaving. Just then two other guys walk in; they also see my board.
"Hey! You guys are still renting step-in bindings, or is that a personal board?" The guy behind the counter dropped my board like a hot coal.
"Oh n-no," he stammered, "it's her personal board." The friend of the guy who asked the question gave me a little smile.
"That board is ANCIENT! Really, really old. You should try *insert the name of some ridiculously expensive brand name bindings, the cost of which could feed a small country, or Jimmy, for a week here*; these guys hooked me up last year." The man had a Spanish accent, because HE WAS FROM CHILE! Like, by what authority do people from Chile give advice on snowboards and bindings to Californians? Do they even HAVE snow in Chile?? Yeah, I was steamed, because they made fun of my totally awesome board, that I knew they were all secretly jealous of anyway. Only not. Whatever.
While we were going up the lift, Johnny and Andrew entertained me by relating the plot of a film they had seen. A mild horror movie about three men who go up the mountain on the lift just before the park closes...leaving them stranded near the top. They all freeze to death, and movie concludes with the image of a frozen hand, eerily rising from the fog. Charming. Precisely the sort of story one wants to hear as one embarks on the very first run of the day. Nothing like some twisted fiction to put a spring in your step. Consequently, they let me know that the probability of something like that ever happening is very low, and of course it could never happen in real life. Alas, the damage was done. We had a great time skiing/snowboarding together. (At least I did, I don't know about them, they were stuck with me.) Without exception,(except me) all snowboarders are arrogant, selfish, boisterous creatures. Imagine, if you can, the presumption, the nerve, the amount of pride it must take to plop oneself in the middle of the slope, without regard for anyone else. Next time I see one of those punks I'm going to let loose what I've restrained for 10 years: "Hey you! Yeah, I'm talking to the walking Burton advertisement! Get out of my way before I run you and your precious beanie over!" Ooh, that'll feel good. I can hardly wait for next year.
A few days after I came back, I went snowboarding with Florin at Mountain High. (If you don't know who he is, he's the man renting a room from us, and I've known him for 16 years.) Somehow, Florin and I got separated. It was getting close to ten 'o clock, the time the park closes, when I decided to take one last run down the mountain. I got into the lift, meant for 4 people, by myself. That's always fun. When the attendants aren't looking, I turn sideways and prop my board up against the back of the chair so that I'm lying down. It's a ridiculously comfortable position. The attendants will yell, scream, and generally make pests of themselves if you do that when they're looking. Try it when you're out of their sight range. Speaking of which, visibility was 30 feet, max. Less than that at the top. The fog was so thick you could cut it. The scene: I'm merrily enjoying my ride up the mountain, when suddenly, the lift stops. Ah, no big deal, it's stopped before. But it doesn't start up again! Two minutes go by...nothing. Four minutes...nothing. Six minutes in, and I hear a faint shout: a rude variation of "Hey! What's going on?" after that, nothing. Eight minutes in, I've switched out of my cozy lounge and into the much more appropriate sitting-on-a-lift fetal position. I began calculating the distance from the lift to the ground, when sheer terror overwhelmed me. All I could think about was a frozen hand! THANKS FOR NOTHING ANDREW AND JOHNNY!
*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~***
And now, I suppose I must explain the title of this blog post, before you die of curiosity. It's a rather boring tale, so keep your hopes down where they belong. I wear almost exactly the same clothes for every single volleyball class. My outfit includes a hideous pair of stretchy purple bell bottoms, and an over sized purple t-shirt. Bell bottoms used to be quite popular with hippies, though they at least had the good sense to make use of denim. Somehow a crazed lunatic got ahold of some stretchy cotton, made a pair of bell bottoms, and forced my mother, at gunpoint, to buy them. Waste not want not, so I'm wearing them. First day of Volleyball class. This skinny, Hispanic boy wanted to get my attention. The ball was flying towards me, and I had no idea. Brilliance has a way of striking people at opportune moments.
"Hey! Purple Girl!" he shouted. That got my attention, I assumed the position I vaguely remembered Jonathan teaching me, and sent the ball flying across the net. Victory!
Moving right along, my friend and I had a test for CIS(Computer Information Science). I scored 54/55, and she 51/55. The statistics show that in a class of 30 people, the first 3 people who stand up will receive D's. Numbers 4-11 receive A's. And all the rest get C's, with a few scattered F's. As everyone knows, all the information garnered from sources like the Internet, and statistics, is infallible. Does your humble self care to contest this fact? Smart cookie. :)
Unfortunately, dear reader, the randomness has petered out and our time has drawn to a close. Halt. Mind you be polite and let me finish before you run out of the room in a frenzy of delight. Ha ha. You are now my prisoner. I will finish with a quote I found very amusing, to celebrate the joyous occasion commemorating the completion of my Algebra 2 class. Which, by the way, I'm very confident I'll get an A in.
Anyone who cannot cope with mathematics is not fully human. At best he is a tolerable subhuman who has learned to wear shoes, bathe, and not make messes in the house. ~Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love
Apparently, I am a tolerable subhuman who still makes messes in the house. :)
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Of College and Test Results
Hello my dear, sweet, lovely, beautiful readers! Welcome to you too, you handsome, rugged...thing...you... (One of the perks of coming on my blog: you come away feeling absolutely fantastic; in much the same way you would if you were to visit a nursing home on a sunny Sunday afternoon.) By the way, if you don't do that too often, make it a priority. So, I took a test last Monday.
I hate tests.
I went in, fully prepared, or so I thought. I figured, I've got 90% of my score already, for the other 10% I'll just have to smile and look pretty. Fat chance. I took one look at my test and passed out. Correction: I took one look at the second page of my test and nearly passed out. It was as if I had studied for an English exam and the professor handed the test to me in Greek. Not all of the problems were hard, but there were a couple of head-spinners in the bunch. So I was ambling along, doing the best I could, and stressing because the minutes were flying by way faster than they had any right to. I snuck a glance in Jimmy's direction; the small plume of smoke and the acrid smell of burning paper emanating from his corner of the room irritated my sensitive nasal cavity. I sighed, returned to my stubborn math problem, which still hadn't solved itself, drew a little arrow pointing to the question, and moved on.
One hour and twenty minutes into the test, this scrawny kid with curly black hair left wild(not brushed, and most probably unwashed) strolled up to the desk nonchalantly. He hitched up his pants with one finger from each hand after handing in his test. "You're finished?" asked Miss Mariani, with an incredulous look on her face. By " an incredulous look", I mean a look that clearly implied: "Kid, based on your behavior in class so far you're really not smart enough to complete this test in a half hour, so I suggest you grow a brain and review your answers before you fail this class with a 'W'." Really, I felt insulted at that moment. In a weird way, I felt insulted that he didn't care enough about this class to put in more effort than a paltry 40 minutes.
Do you know HOW I know this kid was lazy beyond comprehension? Because Jimmy wasn't done yet, and Jimmy is a genius. Not to brag about how smart and awesome my brother is (fail) but Einstein doesn't hold a candle to him. Seriously. Forget the fact that I'm his sister, Jimmy is lighting fast. Then this kid has the audacity, after being one of the most ill-behaved kids in the class, (when you're not paying attention, how can you possibly learn?) to hand in his test early!?? His test results will not be high, which goes to prove all kinds of points.
I was practically the only student who got up to clarify a problem and ask a few questions. Hey, I don't care if I look dumb, if I score a little higher, then its worth it. So, I'm getting to the end of my test, with a couple of problems left, and Miss Mariani announces that we have 5 minutes left. Then and there I made a decision. I really didn't care that the test was timed, Miss Mariani would have to pry that test from my cold dead fingers to get it back, because I wasn't turning it in until I was good and ready. That's how I had the honor of being the last person to turn in my test. After an agonizing week-long wait....we received our results. Jimmy scored 99.5% and I scored a respectable 89%, missing an 'A' by two points. I'm still thankful though, because I've gotten 100% on everything else she's given us, so I'm fairly confident that I'll end the semester with an 'A'. Jimmy had the nerve to voice his disappointment that he didn't score 100%. hah. Half the class shot him dirty looks.
**~**~**~ TOP TEN WORST THINGS ABOUT COLLEGE~**~**~**
* Guys who think they look incredible, strumming away at their guitars while humming soulfully off-key in the amphitheater, need to think again.
* Every day I witness the merciless slaughter of the English language.
* If I close my eyes, I can smell a Fohawk-wearing guy 300 ft. away, his hair has more product in it than a girls'. (Easy on the Pantene for Men Spray Gel, guys. Specifically, easy on the Fohawks.)
* Please explain to me how blond dreadlocks became legal.
*If you are girl, you shouldn't wear skinny jeans...if you are a bigger girl you should ABSOLUTELY never wear skinny jeans...it takes a staggering amount of self-discipline NOT to throw up on a GUY wearing skinny jeans.
* If I have to run after another bus yelling and screaming like a crazy person only to miss it by 20 feet, I cannot take responsibility for my actions.
* I sit next to a guy, and my nails aren't painted, but his are. *_*
* There's enough bass in the Techno R&B they play live on campus to bounce me from class to class.
*I get the feeling that if I pull someone's earbud out, their ear will come off with it. That's what happens when you never remove an object, the body adopts it.
* My backpack is so heavy, I'm going to have shoulders bigger than Shaq's by the end of the semester.
~**~**~**~**~**~
Our teacher Miss Mariani immigrated from Crete. If Italians are from Italy, Romanians are from Romania, and Indians are from India...shouldn't it follow that Cretins come from Crete?
Sorry, bad joke. I really like her, but she gives us too much homework.
I hate tests.
I went in, fully prepared, or so I thought. I figured, I've got 90% of my score already, for the other 10% I'll just have to smile and look pretty. Fat chance. I took one look at my test and passed out. Correction: I took one look at the second page of my test and nearly passed out. It was as if I had studied for an English exam and the professor handed the test to me in Greek. Not all of the problems were hard, but there were a couple of head-spinners in the bunch. So I was ambling along, doing the best I could, and stressing because the minutes were flying by way faster than they had any right to. I snuck a glance in Jimmy's direction; the small plume of smoke and the acrid smell of burning paper emanating from his corner of the room irritated my sensitive nasal cavity. I sighed, returned to my stubborn math problem, which still hadn't solved itself, drew a little arrow pointing to the question, and moved on.
One hour and twenty minutes into the test, this scrawny kid with curly black hair left wild(not brushed, and most probably unwashed) strolled up to the desk nonchalantly. He hitched up his pants with one finger from each hand after handing in his test. "You're finished?" asked Miss Mariani, with an incredulous look on her face. By " an incredulous look", I mean a look that clearly implied: "Kid, based on your behavior in class so far you're really not smart enough to complete this test in a half hour, so I suggest you grow a brain and review your answers before you fail this class with a 'W'." Really, I felt insulted at that moment. In a weird way, I felt insulted that he didn't care enough about this class to put in more effort than a paltry 40 minutes.
Do you know HOW I know this kid was lazy beyond comprehension? Because Jimmy wasn't done yet, and Jimmy is a genius. Not to brag about how smart and awesome my brother is (fail) but Einstein doesn't hold a candle to him. Seriously. Forget the fact that I'm his sister, Jimmy is lighting fast. Then this kid has the audacity, after being one of the most ill-behaved kids in the class, (when you're not paying attention, how can you possibly learn?) to hand in his test early!?? His test results will not be high, which goes to prove all kinds of points.
I was practically the only student who got up to clarify a problem and ask a few questions. Hey, I don't care if I look dumb, if I score a little higher, then its worth it. So, I'm getting to the end of my test, with a couple of problems left, and Miss Mariani announces that we have 5 minutes left. Then and there I made a decision. I really didn't care that the test was timed, Miss Mariani would have to pry that test from my cold dead fingers to get it back, because I wasn't turning it in until I was good and ready. That's how I had the honor of being the last person to turn in my test. After an agonizing week-long wait....we received our results. Jimmy scored 99.5% and I scored a respectable 89%, missing an 'A' by two points. I'm still thankful though, because I've gotten 100% on everything else she's given us, so I'm fairly confident that I'll end the semester with an 'A'. Jimmy had the nerve to voice his disappointment that he didn't score 100%. hah. Half the class shot him dirty looks.
**~**~**~ TOP TEN WORST THINGS ABOUT COLLEGE~**~**~**
* Guys who think they look incredible, strumming away at their guitars while humming soulfully off-key in the amphitheater, need to think again.
* Every day I witness the merciless slaughter of the English language.
* If I close my eyes, I can smell a Fohawk-wearing guy 300 ft. away, his hair has more product in it than a girls'. (Easy on the Pantene for Men Spray Gel, guys. Specifically, easy on the Fohawks.)
* Please explain to me how blond dreadlocks became legal.
*If you are girl, you shouldn't wear skinny jeans...if you are a bigger girl you should ABSOLUTELY never wear skinny jeans...it takes a staggering amount of self-discipline NOT to throw up on a GUY wearing skinny jeans.
* If I have to run after another bus yelling and screaming like a crazy person only to miss it by 20 feet, I cannot take responsibility for my actions.
* I sit next to a guy, and my nails aren't painted, but his are. *_*
* There's enough bass in the Techno R&B they play live on campus to bounce me from class to class.
*I get the feeling that if I pull someone's earbud out, their ear will come off with it. That's what happens when you never remove an object, the body adopts it.
* My backpack is so heavy, I'm going to have shoulders bigger than Shaq's by the end of the semester.
~**~**~**~**~**~
Our teacher Miss Mariani immigrated from Crete. If Italians are from Italy, Romanians are from Romania, and Indians are from India...shouldn't it follow that Cretins come from Crete?
Sorry, bad joke. I really like her, but she gives us too much homework.
Friday, January 22, 2010
An update? Can it be?
First off, HELP! I'm drowning in skads of homework...which I should be doing, but don't judge me. Seven hours of math is quite enough, thank you very much. A few people I once thought to be quite wise advised me not to worry because college only gets easier. Yeah, NOT WHEN YOU'RE TAKING A HYBRID COURSE! It's 18 weeks of math squished into 9. Chew on that for a while, especially if you're not a math person. So, why am I sitting here typing when I have literally a mountain of math on my desk? Yeah, I'll get back to you on that. ( Or not.) If you're just going to sit there and judge me though, then you can go ahead and click the little "x" button on the top right-hand corner of your screen. I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.
Oh, who am I kidding? No one even reads my blog anymore...(excepting, of course, of my three saintly friends Emily, Laura, and Sarah) AS EVIDENCED BY THE THREE MEASLY COMMENTS THAT I RECEIVED WHEN I PRACTICALLY POURED MY HEART OUT TO YOU IN MY LAST POST. IF IT LOOKS LIKE I'M YELLING AT YOU IN PRINT IT'S BECAUSE I AM. Did you catch the hint? I all but threw it at you. Honestly, not commenting on peoples' blogs is insensitive, irritating, and displays an almost imponderable lack of social refinement! One puts so much time and effort into achieving that perfect blend of witticism and satire known as a blog post, only to discover that the symphony of words and phrases that distinguishes ones' art from mediocrity isn't good enough for some people! In fact, it's beneath the audience to even LEAVE A COMMENT. You trample some poor, honest souls' self-esteem into the dust, and spit on it for good measure every time you refuse him/her the courtesy of a comment. If you are one of these people, go crawl under the rock from whence you came.
Seriously though, I'd have to be a complete hermit, or pathetically sensitive, for your comments (or lack thereof) to affect me so deeply. Oh wait...
(watch me waste my words on your heart of stone and receive no comments for this post.)
*~**~**8~**~**L~**~**8~**~**~*
Anyway, school has been going great. I can't wait to start my last class, accounting, in February. Fun stuff. :) One thing, though, really bothers me while I'm on campus. I just feel like addressing the issue. On some days it's bad, and on others it's worse. The language. I haven't really interacted with strangers on a daily basis before, so I was shocked. This is how people "in the world" communicate with each other? What happened to actual talking, as opposed to swearing at one another? Not that I stick around long, just the bits and snatches of conversation I pick up while going to and from class. It's still enough to burn my ears off. I realize that most of you don't have to deal with all of these sordid details, but since I don't have a journal anymore, bear with me. It grates on my nerves. Not every day, because like I mentioned I don't stay, but sometimes it's overwhelming. I just feel so sorry for those kids! There they are, at college and studying hard, presumably to get a decent job, and using such awful language. Who's going to hire somebody who can't form a complete sentence without using dirty expletives? Nobody. To say nothing of how skewed their moral compass must be. It's sad and depressing that you can't have a decent discussion with people anymore. Of course, not everybody is like that...I've met, so far, seven nice, decent people. I'm thanking the Lord that I've made a few friends there. :) Sometimes I wonder if it's okay to just go up to people and tell them to clean up their mouth. The urge to do that is slowly becoming uncontrollable. One of these days I'm going to get so offended its going to pop out. *sighs*
~**^**~**^**~**^**~
At last count I have 31 pairs of shoes. It's gotten to the point where even I realize it is a teeny, tiny bit over the top, so I'm going to try and find time to revamp(read: throw out the contents) of half my closet. Most likely, it'll be a very emotional, painful process that I'm going to medicate with Andrea Bocelli and a whole lotta chocolate. In other news, I passed by Life guarding Final! All I have to do is show up on Tuesday and get my card. Boy, am I ever thankful and thrilled. I'm also qualified to give emergency oxygen. So, if you ever feel the need to pass out and stop breathing, do it in front of me. I figure if I need to practice, it might as well be on you. ;) How does that rate on your comfort scale? Pretty high? Yeah, didn't think so.
That's all the news I have for this post. Thanks for stopping by!
Now go do something productive, you've wasted enough time as it is.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
I'm a Cerritos Falcon....and I've a good mind to buy a cheesy sweatshirt displaying it.
I so should not be posting right now....I should be in bed, sleeping, or doing homework. But you all know me, so of course, I'm not doing any of those things. Plus, as it's the first week, I don't have much homework. Homework. I'm a college girl! It's pretty exciting. I was surprised, to say the least, by my first couple of days on campus. I've talked to some people about college, and about their experiences...so I came expecting the worst. I loaded down my backpack in self-defense, just in case Jimmy, at 6 foot and barely 15, wouldn't do the trick.(My backpack is now lethal. Be afraid, be very afraid.) I steeled myself to meet the druggies and thieves I knew would be lurking around every corner; fully expecting the campus to be crawling with creepy, bug-eyed creatures complete with horns and tails.
Boy, was I ever dissapointed! These people were normal! And nice! Well, some of them were, the ones who'd learned to mind their manners and their language. What a relief to discover that a shred of moral decency still existed within the hearts and minds of these young people! No monsters OR aliens. (If you don't count a certain someone in a black hooded sweatshirt with some questionable items on his person.) Anyway, I was pleased.
My algebra professor is really great. She's a plump lady in her late thirties, the mother hen type, and she knows her stuff. This is going to sound awful, but it's great fun for us when she yells at students for being late. Jimmy and I sit at our desks puffing out our chests with pride, because we're never late. (At least, we haven't been the last two times.) She hates tardy kids. "If you're tardy twice, I will drop you. If you're absent once, I will drop you. If you're extremely tardy, I will count that as an absense and drop you." This one kid showed up today right after everyone had sat down. Like, right after. She had barely begun talking when she saw him and stopped. "If you're late like this one more time *insert whatshisface name's here*, I will drop you. Go find a seat." I like her. :)We're going to get along great, I can feel it.
Volleyball. Me loves it! The first day of class was interesting. Jonathan Stevens had suggested I enroll in the Intermediate/Advanced class as opposed to the Begginer class. From what he saw, the begginers were pretty awful. He thought I would probably do better in something more advanced. From now on I'm going to take Jonathan's good advice with a grain (or 5) of salt. These kids were good. Scary good. A couple of the guys even played as well as Jonathan. (I'll stop saying your name now, Jonathan. Ok, done.) I mean, I was confused. "Janette, pass!" The ball swoops through the air in a perfect arc. "Andy, set! You got it man!" He sends the ball high, but not too high, the perfect distance from the net. "It's all yours, Chad! Spiiiiike!" POW! We score. I was like, Woah! I'm slightly out of my league here. I learned real quick not to ask too many dumb questions, either.(What do you use to spike the ball, your whole hand, or just your palm?) Our volleyball coach was quick to inform me that this here was not picnic volleyball, and basically told me that little girls should go to the begginers sandbox to learn how to play. I wasn't having any of it.
"Look, ma'am, I'd like to try and stay in this class. If I try and I'm not good enough, then please, by all means kick me out." She gave me a whole little spiel about not wanting to kick anybody off the team, but I still felt a little discouraged. Anyway, I went back to playing, and in the end I had a lot of fun. (Even when I messed up, which was often, my team mates didn't get mad. I've never received so many high-fives in one day.) So I talked to her afterwards, and she saw I was sweating, and I told her that even though I hadn't actually "played" before, I thought I could do well. She just looked at me. "All right kid, it looks like you've worked hard, so I'll give you a shot. Good hustle." I got a pat on the back and a spot in the class for my efforts. Someone cue that "Remember the Titans" theme song. I guess you-know-who was right after all. In any case, playing real volleyball is a lot more fun than tossing the ball around in a circle on the kiddie side of the fence. :-)
I'm starting to like this whole college thing. I'd appreciate your prayers for me, that I would be a godly example to the people who get to know me, and a diligent, responsible student. Starting right now, as I'm going to go hit the sack. Thank you everyone for your support!
"Oh give thanks unto the God of heaven, for His mercy endures forever."
~Psalm 136:26
Boy, was I ever dissapointed! These people were normal! And nice! Well, some of them were, the ones who'd learned to mind their manners and their language. What a relief to discover that a shred of moral decency still existed within the hearts and minds of these young people! No monsters OR aliens. (If you don't count a certain someone in a black hooded sweatshirt with some questionable items on his person.) Anyway, I was pleased.
My algebra professor is really great. She's a plump lady in her late thirties, the mother hen type, and she knows her stuff. This is going to sound awful, but it's great fun for us when she yells at students for being late. Jimmy and I sit at our desks puffing out our chests with pride, because we're never late. (At least, we haven't been the last two times.) She hates tardy kids. "If you're tardy twice, I will drop you. If you're absent once, I will drop you. If you're extremely tardy, I will count that as an absense and drop you." This one kid showed up today right after everyone had sat down. Like, right after. She had barely begun talking when she saw him and stopped. "If you're late like this one more time *insert whatshisface name's here*, I will drop you. Go find a seat." I like her. :)We're going to get along great, I can feel it.
Volleyball. Me loves it! The first day of class was interesting. Jonathan Stevens had suggested I enroll in the Intermediate/Advanced class as opposed to the Begginer class. From what he saw, the begginers were pretty awful. He thought I would probably do better in something more advanced. From now on I'm going to take Jonathan's good advice with a grain (or 5) of salt. These kids were good. Scary good. A couple of the guys even played as well as Jonathan. (I'll stop saying your name now, Jonathan. Ok, done.) I mean, I was confused. "Janette, pass!" The ball swoops through the air in a perfect arc. "Andy, set! You got it man!" He sends the ball high, but not too high, the perfect distance from the net. "It's all yours, Chad! Spiiiiike!" POW! We score. I was like, Woah! I'm slightly out of my league here. I learned real quick not to ask too many dumb questions, either.(What do you use to spike the ball, your whole hand, or just your palm?) Our volleyball coach was quick to inform me that this here was not picnic volleyball, and basically told me that little girls should go to the begginers sandbox to learn how to play. I wasn't having any of it.
"Look, ma'am, I'd like to try and stay in this class. If I try and I'm not good enough, then please, by all means kick me out." She gave me a whole little spiel about not wanting to kick anybody off the team, but I still felt a little discouraged. Anyway, I went back to playing, and in the end I had a lot of fun. (Even when I messed up, which was often, my team mates didn't get mad. I've never received so many high-fives in one day.) So I talked to her afterwards, and she saw I was sweating, and I told her that even though I hadn't actually "played" before, I thought I could do well. She just looked at me. "All right kid, it looks like you've worked hard, so I'll give you a shot. Good hustle." I got a pat on the back and a spot in the class for my efforts. Someone cue that "Remember the Titans" theme song. I guess you-know-who was right after all. In any case, playing real volleyball is a lot more fun than tossing the ball around in a circle on the kiddie side of the fence. :-)
I'm starting to like this whole college thing. I'd appreciate your prayers for me, that I would be a godly example to the people who get to know me, and a diligent, responsible student. Starting right now, as I'm going to go hit the sack. Thank you everyone for your support!
"Oh give thanks unto the God of heaven, for His mercy endures forever."
~Psalm 136:26
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