Shit is not, actually, fucked, I just wanted an excuse to use that title.
Anyway.
Text received from Coop at 11:20 p.m. last Thursday, when I was at a party at his suite with him present: "Who invited [S.W.]?"
Okay. I can't completely play dumb. I know he "likes" him in the way you "looooooove" your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. And I also know he thinks S.W.'s a pussy and an all-around loser. So, yeah... not so much a fan. But still, he's my boyfriend, and if the charade of our friendship is to continue, then he has to accept my boyfriend and his, y'know, basic existance. That text told me everything I needed to know about Coop and how he feels about me, and us as friends. Or, "friends."
So now he's avoiding me. And when he's avoiding me, and not so much a fan of me, then his bad qualities become pretty fucking obvious. Like how he'll make fun of you to your face (or, in my face, not to my face, but to the girl sitting next to me). In other words, he became an ASSHOLE.
I'm thinking I'm just going to confront him about it. If he really is what he prides himself on being--tactless, in-your-face, etc etc--then he'll be able to handle it.
If not, then... I just don't know.
It's "that time of the month," so I'm 5 lbs heavier, a C cup (not that any guys are complaining, but they are FUCKING ANNOYING), and my face is breaking out. I am not cute right now, not cute at all. Also, since spraining my ankle last weekend, I haven't run in a week and I am feeling like a slug. So I'm shall-we-say not at the top of my game. Eh.
However: I haven't been in the launch in like 2 weeks. Zimmer must like me. Or something. Or maybe he just got me and DBrown confused again. Who knows.
Lover! Come back to me!
ETA: Proof of why shit is not fucked and life is actually good: my grades so far, as of midterms:
Latin Civ: A on paper + undeserved 88 on midterm (not bad for literally never, ever going to class) = A-
Roman Social History: B+ on midterm (again, not bad for finishing the midterm in literally 15 minutes. Apparently I achieved notoriety in that class for walking out and everyone thought I failed. All those haters don't know shit)
Shakespeare: A/A- (whatever that means... I don't do the reading)
Austrian History: umm... who knows, but my prof thought my paper was "creative" and "innovative" with "no big problems" (a ringing endorsement!). Not sure what grade that translates to
My GPA is kicking ass and taking names so far. Knock on wood so I don't crash and burn on my finals. Also: that's what happens, kids, when you take 3 histories and an English course. Yay! I love humanities!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Long Time
It's been a while.
Activities since last post:
- S.W. and I are... good again. Of course, I get bored when I'm not standing directly in front of him, but... come on, where else am I going to find a Jim Halpert look alike? Besides John Krasinski himself. So... silver lining.
- Channeling my creative impulses into actual writing. New plan: on last day of work at LDailInc, I will hand my manuscript to Tamar, who will then immediately book me and I will be published by the time I graduate college. Excerpt later.
- Princeton Chase. aka, DOMINATION.
- Dressed as Pam for Halloween. You know the "fashion show at lunch" shirt? I have it in blue and wore it and, as C.C. said, "BOOBS." Yep. I have them. And my body thinks its pregnant now so I'm like a fucking C cup. Oh, to be a man...
And that's about it.
Now, let's play a game: who is who?
Nat, Vicky and I took our trays through the lines for the sandwich bar, filled glasses with Diet Coke, and sat down at our table.
The grilling began immediately.
“So, I heard about last night,” Vicky said archly.
“What did you hear?” I asked innocently, taking an innocent sip of my soda and wiping my mouth innocently with a napkin.
“Omigod, you’re a slut now!” Nat brayed.
Vicky ignored her and looked at me. “So what happened?”
“I thought you heard about it already.”
“Morgan told me you and Jake hooked up. But beyond that, nothing.”
“We did,” I confirmed.
“Define ‘hooked up.’”
I took another huge bite of my sandwich and chewed as slowly as possible.
Nat squealed. “Tell us!”
“Let me guess,” Vicky said. “You two hooked up, hooked up.”
I put my sandwich down and swallowed. “We did not have sex.”
“Did I say that?”
“You said hooked up, hooked up.”
“Okay, if you and Jake had sex, I would be really freaked out,” Vicky said. “Because he is way old. And you’re a virgin. And fifteen.” Vicky liked to act like she was much, much older than me, but it was just a year—she repeated sophomore year when she came to Westcott. I would make fun of her for it, but every other school asked me to do the same thing.
“Do you want to have sex with him?” Nat demanded with her usual subtlety.
“Um, when did the conversation turn to sex? I did not mention sex.”
“I didn’t say you did. You’re the one who brought it up,” Vicky pointed out. “Freudian slip much?”
“What does that mean?”
“It kind of sounds like you want to have sex with him,” Nat said. Vicky shot her a look—clearly, the two of them had been talking about this, since Nat was not usually that perceptive.
I kept my eyes on my food.
“I knew it!” Nat crowed.
Vicky just looked at me. “Really?”
“No,” I snapped. “Can we stop talking about this now?”
“Okay, okay. Back to what actually happened.” Vicky caught my eye and knew I would tell her everything later, when Nat wasn’t around.
“Okay. Well, like I said, we hooked up.” I paused, looking around. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “And . . . I gave him head.”
Nat clapped. “Good girl!”
Vicky shushed her. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“How’d it go?”
“All right.” What kind of question was that? “It went fine. Nothing weird.”
“Did he like it?” Nat asked awkwardly.
“Yep.”
“Good girl!” Nat repeated again.
I picked my sandwich apart and ate a tomato. “It’s not a huge accomplishment,” I said, irritated now. “You’ve all done it. Morgan’s done it. I’m sure this is not the first time Jake’s gotten it. So would you all please stop talking to me like I just got potty trained or something. Because it is definitely not such a big fucking deal.”
Nat just stared at me like an idiot. God, she could be annoying. To her, I was sure the fact that I joined the oral sex club was a big deal. It probably made her feel like less of a slut. I didn’t feel like a slut, no matter how much they could joke about it. I just liked Jake and I just wanted to do what everyone else who liked someone did. That was it.
Vicky rubbed my arm in that guidance-counselor way. “All right. We’re done. But you have to tell us what’s going on with the two of you. Are you guys, like, together now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you talk about it?”
“No.”
“You should probably talk about it,” Nat said.
I resisted the urge to glare venemously at her and consoled myself with a sarcastic response: “Really? You think?”
Not getting it, she just nodded. “Definitely.”
I looked to Vicky for help, but she was agreeing with Nat. “And you shouldn’t hook up with him again until you talk to him about it.”
I stared. “So you’re a Rules girl?”
“No. I just think you should.”
“Why? I like him. I liked hooking up with him. He’s a good kisser.”
“Because . . .” I knew Vicky wanted to say something about him being older, and a hockey recruit, which meant he was probably a player. I knew she wanted to warn me that I could be hurt. And she also knew how well I would take that. So she trailed off, giving up for now. She stood. “I’m going to get more soda. Anyone else want?”
“You should hook up with him again,” Morgan announced.
We were sitting in the library during E, which the four of us—Morgan, Will, Randy, and I—had free. Will and I would always spread our school stuff in front of us, at least pretending to do work, but Randy and Morgan didn’t bother with even that; for Randy, this was the only time he saw the inside of the library, and I very rarely saw Morgan doing work. Like sleeping, homework seemed to be optional for Morgan.
“Definitely,” Randy agreed. “With who again?”
“With Jake,” Morgan supplied.
Randy whistled. “Really? Jake? Well, I’m not surprised. He’s been talking about you since the first week of school.”
I tried not to smile.
“That kid’s a dick,” Will muttered. He looked down quickly and I knew he’d seen that brief look of satisfaction that I couldn’t keep off my face.
“You don’t even know him,” I said.
“I know him well enough,” he snapped back.
Morgan was following this exchange gleefully; I saw her bright green eyes widening as she looked back and forth.
“He’s cool,” Randy said. “You’re just jealous.”
We all froze. Will kept his eyes carefully trained on his Chemistry textbook.
“I’m not jealous of that fucking cripple,” Will said finally.
“He just pulled a hamstring!”
“Like I said, cripple. What’s he doing this fall? Yoga?”
“All the hockey players do yoga in the fall.”
“Oh, like Hunter? Or Reid?” Two guys on his soccer team.
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Children, calm yourselves,” Morgan said. “Breathe in, breathe out.”
Randy giggled and nudged Will, who just glared at him. Will leaned farther forward, bracketing his textbook with his arms.
“Here.” Morgan tugged her shirt down. “Try to get something down my shirt. Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”
Randy immediately tore off a corner from one of Will’s notebooks, balled it up, and aimed carefully at the front of Morgan’s V-neck. No luck. “Fuck!” he yelled, pounding on the desk.
No one looked up but the librarian, an ancient crone named Mrs. White, who immediately stalked over. “Randolph!” she hissed. This use of his given name shut him up better than any threat, and he sunk down in his seat so his nose was on the same level as the table top. I stifled a giggle. She crossed her arms, sent him one last scornful look, and marched back to her station behind the circulation desk.
I lost it the second her back was turned. “Randolph!” I wheezed, trying to control myself. “Omigod, how did I not know that?”
“Randolph Walter Spencer Cushing II,” Morgan was only too happy to supply.
I covered my mouth. “No!”
Will nodded gravely, patting Randy on the back. “I’m afraid so.”
Randy sat up. “I can’t believe you don’t know this already, but they don’t let you live in Greenwich unless you have Roman numerals after your name. My dad’s name is actually Mohamed, but my parents just made up a name and tacked the II on so no one would kick us out.”
I leaned against Morgan. “God, your parents must hate you.”
“Yep,” he said cheerfully.
“Well, it can’t be as bad as my middle name,” Morgan said. “Maude.”
This was too much for me. “Maude? Are you kidding me?”
Will cracked a smile in my direction, and suddenly I stopped laughing, leaving a slight smile on my face I hoped he knew was for him. Maybe he didn’t hate me. “Morgan Maude Fawcett,” he said.
“Oh, wow,” I breathed.
“It’s an old family name,” Morgan said defensively.
“So is Randolph,” Randy said. “And Walter. And Spencer. And Cushing. I have family names coming out of my fucking ass.” He tore out another sheet of paper from Will’s notebook. “Okay, now that I’m completely traumatized, can I try again?”
Morgan sighed and leaned way back in her chair. “Okay, but I’m making it hard for you.”
Randy let fly, and the little ball of looseleaf arced gracefully through the air, landing in Morgan’s cleavage. He punched the air triumphantly. “Victory!” he whispered, with a look to the circulation desk. “Okay, Chris, your turn.”
I crossed my arms over my chest (primly concealed beneath a polo shirt) as Morgan fished around in her bra for the errant projectile. “Nope. Sorry.”
“I guess that’s Jake’s territory now, anyway,” Randy said with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, so much possibility, so cruelly wasted.”
Morgan produced the little ball and flung it at him. It landed on the table, halfway between us.
“No big loss,” Will commented, looking directly at me.
Yep... I think it's easy to tell who is who.
Activities since last post:
- S.W. and I are... good again. Of course, I get bored when I'm not standing directly in front of him, but... come on, where else am I going to find a Jim Halpert look alike? Besides John Krasinski himself. So... silver lining.
- Channeling my creative impulses into actual writing. New plan: on last day of work at LDailInc, I will hand my manuscript to Tamar, who will then immediately book me and I will be published by the time I graduate college. Excerpt later.
- Princeton Chase. aka, DOMINATION.
- Dressed as Pam for Halloween. You know the "fashion show at lunch" shirt? I have it in blue and wore it and, as C.C. said, "BOOBS." Yep. I have them. And my body thinks its pregnant now so I'm like a fucking C cup. Oh, to be a man...
And that's about it.
Now, let's play a game: who is who?
Nat, Vicky and I took our trays through the lines for the sandwich bar, filled glasses with Diet Coke, and sat down at our table.
The grilling began immediately.
“So, I heard about last night,” Vicky said archly.
“What did you hear?” I asked innocently, taking an innocent sip of my soda and wiping my mouth innocently with a napkin.
“Omigod, you’re a slut now!” Nat brayed.
Vicky ignored her and looked at me. “So what happened?”
“I thought you heard about it already.”
“Morgan told me you and Jake hooked up. But beyond that, nothing.”
“We did,” I confirmed.
“Define ‘hooked up.’”
I took another huge bite of my sandwich and chewed as slowly as possible.
Nat squealed. “Tell us!”
“Let me guess,” Vicky said. “You two hooked up, hooked up.”
I put my sandwich down and swallowed. “We did not have sex.”
“Did I say that?”
“You said hooked up, hooked up.”
“Okay, if you and Jake had sex, I would be really freaked out,” Vicky said. “Because he is way old. And you’re a virgin. And fifteen.” Vicky liked to act like she was much, much older than me, but it was just a year—she repeated sophomore year when she came to Westcott. I would make fun of her for it, but every other school asked me to do the same thing.
“Do you want to have sex with him?” Nat demanded with her usual subtlety.
“Um, when did the conversation turn to sex? I did not mention sex.”
“I didn’t say you did. You’re the one who brought it up,” Vicky pointed out. “Freudian slip much?”
“What does that mean?”
“It kind of sounds like you want to have sex with him,” Nat said. Vicky shot her a look—clearly, the two of them had been talking about this, since Nat was not usually that perceptive.
I kept my eyes on my food.
“I knew it!” Nat crowed.
Vicky just looked at me. “Really?”
“No,” I snapped. “Can we stop talking about this now?”
“Okay, okay. Back to what actually happened.” Vicky caught my eye and knew I would tell her everything later, when Nat wasn’t around.
“Okay. Well, like I said, we hooked up.” I paused, looking around. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “And . . . I gave him head.”
Nat clapped. “Good girl!”
Vicky shushed her. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“How’d it go?”
“All right.” What kind of question was that? “It went fine. Nothing weird.”
“Did he like it?” Nat asked awkwardly.
“Yep.”
“Good girl!” Nat repeated again.
I picked my sandwich apart and ate a tomato. “It’s not a huge accomplishment,” I said, irritated now. “You’ve all done it. Morgan’s done it. I’m sure this is not the first time Jake’s gotten it. So would you all please stop talking to me like I just got potty trained or something. Because it is definitely not such a big fucking deal.”
Nat just stared at me like an idiot. God, she could be annoying. To her, I was sure the fact that I joined the oral sex club was a big deal. It probably made her feel like less of a slut. I didn’t feel like a slut, no matter how much they could joke about it. I just liked Jake and I just wanted to do what everyone else who liked someone did. That was it.
Vicky rubbed my arm in that guidance-counselor way. “All right. We’re done. But you have to tell us what’s going on with the two of you. Are you guys, like, together now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you talk about it?”
“No.”
“You should probably talk about it,” Nat said.
I resisted the urge to glare venemously at her and consoled myself with a sarcastic response: “Really? You think?”
Not getting it, she just nodded. “Definitely.”
I looked to Vicky for help, but she was agreeing with Nat. “And you shouldn’t hook up with him again until you talk to him about it.”
I stared. “So you’re a Rules girl?”
“No. I just think you should.”
“Why? I like him. I liked hooking up with him. He’s a good kisser.”
“Because . . .” I knew Vicky wanted to say something about him being older, and a hockey recruit, which meant he was probably a player. I knew she wanted to warn me that I could be hurt. And she also knew how well I would take that. So she trailed off, giving up for now. She stood. “I’m going to get more soda. Anyone else want?”
“You should hook up with him again,” Morgan announced.
We were sitting in the library during E, which the four of us—Morgan, Will, Randy, and I—had free. Will and I would always spread our school stuff in front of us, at least pretending to do work, but Randy and Morgan didn’t bother with even that; for Randy, this was the only time he saw the inside of the library, and I very rarely saw Morgan doing work. Like sleeping, homework seemed to be optional for Morgan.
“Definitely,” Randy agreed. “With who again?”
“With Jake,” Morgan supplied.
Randy whistled. “Really? Jake? Well, I’m not surprised. He’s been talking about you since the first week of school.”
I tried not to smile.
“That kid’s a dick,” Will muttered. He looked down quickly and I knew he’d seen that brief look of satisfaction that I couldn’t keep off my face.
“You don’t even know him,” I said.
“I know him well enough,” he snapped back.
Morgan was following this exchange gleefully; I saw her bright green eyes widening as she looked back and forth.
“He’s cool,” Randy said. “You’re just jealous.”
We all froze. Will kept his eyes carefully trained on his Chemistry textbook.
“I’m not jealous of that fucking cripple,” Will said finally.
“He just pulled a hamstring!”
“Like I said, cripple. What’s he doing this fall? Yoga?”
“All the hockey players do yoga in the fall.”
“Oh, like Hunter? Or Reid?” Two guys on his soccer team.
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Children, calm yourselves,” Morgan said. “Breathe in, breathe out.”
Randy giggled and nudged Will, who just glared at him. Will leaned farther forward, bracketing his textbook with his arms.
“Here.” Morgan tugged her shirt down. “Try to get something down my shirt. Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”
Randy immediately tore off a corner from one of Will’s notebooks, balled it up, and aimed carefully at the front of Morgan’s V-neck. No luck. “Fuck!” he yelled, pounding on the desk.
No one looked up but the librarian, an ancient crone named Mrs. White, who immediately stalked over. “Randolph!” she hissed. This use of his given name shut him up better than any threat, and he sunk down in his seat so his nose was on the same level as the table top. I stifled a giggle. She crossed her arms, sent him one last scornful look, and marched back to her station behind the circulation desk.
I lost it the second her back was turned. “Randolph!” I wheezed, trying to control myself. “Omigod, how did I not know that?”
“Randolph Walter Spencer Cushing II,” Morgan was only too happy to supply.
I covered my mouth. “No!”
Will nodded gravely, patting Randy on the back. “I’m afraid so.”
Randy sat up. “I can’t believe you don’t know this already, but they don’t let you live in Greenwich unless you have Roman numerals after your name. My dad’s name is actually Mohamed, but my parents just made up a name and tacked the II on so no one would kick us out.”
I leaned against Morgan. “God, your parents must hate you.”
“Yep,” he said cheerfully.
“Well, it can’t be as bad as my middle name,” Morgan said. “Maude.”
This was too much for me. “Maude? Are you kidding me?”
Will cracked a smile in my direction, and suddenly I stopped laughing, leaving a slight smile on my face I hoped he knew was for him. Maybe he didn’t hate me. “Morgan Maude Fawcett,” he said.
“Oh, wow,” I breathed.
“It’s an old family name,” Morgan said defensively.
“So is Randolph,” Randy said. “And Walter. And Spencer. And Cushing. I have family names coming out of my fucking ass.” He tore out another sheet of paper from Will’s notebook. “Okay, now that I’m completely traumatized, can I try again?”
Morgan sighed and leaned way back in her chair. “Okay, but I’m making it hard for you.”
Randy let fly, and the little ball of looseleaf arced gracefully through the air, landing in Morgan’s cleavage. He punched the air triumphantly. “Victory!” he whispered, with a look to the circulation desk. “Okay, Chris, your turn.”
I crossed my arms over my chest (primly concealed beneath a polo shirt) as Morgan fished around in her bra for the errant projectile. “Nope. Sorry.”
“I guess that’s Jake’s territory now, anyway,” Randy said with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, so much possibility, so cruelly wasted.”
Morgan produced the little ball and flung it at him. It landed on the table, halfway between us.
“No big loss,” Will commented, looking directly at me.
Yep... I think it's easy to tell who is who.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
News
- Applying for Time Editorial Summer Internship. If I worked at EW, my life would be made. Of course, competition is stiff, but... I will fight and claw to get it.
- Could get an interview with FNL's Jesse Plemons. Of course, my email hermit tendencies are making me shoot myself in the foot, but... that would be SICK. And I could ask him wtf is up with that murder.
- Could get an interview with FNL's Jesse Plemons. Of course, my email hermit tendencies are making me shoot myself in the foot, but... that would be SICK. And I could ask him wtf is up with that murder.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Ugh
Charles recap:
Had to pass Rutgers on the outside, way wide on Weeks turn. Okay, fine. Not fine? Having to drop the ports out on the Elliot turn. FUCK. Oh, and thanks, Zimmer, for having us practicing high rates. Wtf? We've barely rowed higher than a 32 and he wants us at a 37? Um... no.
More later.
S.W. came, which made me happy. But... I pissed him off when I wouldn't let him stay over. I should have. It would've been polite. But I am a selfish bitch.
Had to pass Rutgers on the outside, way wide on Weeks turn. Okay, fine. Not fine? Having to drop the ports out on the Elliot turn. FUCK. Oh, and thanks, Zimmer, for having us practicing high rates. Wtf? We've barely rowed higher than a 32 and he wants us at a 37? Um... no.
More later.
S.W. came, which made me happy. But... I pissed him off when I wouldn't let him stay over. I should have. It would've been polite. But I am a selfish bitch.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Midterm Season Rapes My Life
Latin Civ: Over.
Shakespeare: Over.
Seminar paper: Am fucked for.
Roman Social: Um.. how long has it been since I've been to that class?
Yeah, I'm screwed. But as Lyla Garrity says, I made my bed. (FNL tomorrow night!)
I think S.W. and I are over. Prague plus my new social life (that's still kind of pathetic and nonexistant) have proven too much for us. But really, you know it's bad when people who barely know me go, "He really only likes you when you're miserable." It's true. I have a personality this year; I'm happy(er); I'm even doing well in crew for the first time since high school. And he can't handle it because he still has nothing. Not that I ever, ever want W.E. to be right about anything, ever, but his nickname for S.W. is apt: Tears. I called him tonight and he just sounded like a beaten-down puppy. In the wise words of Angela Martin, "Sometimes you just need to grow a pair!"
Why do I always end up the man in my relationships? This is exactly like me and B.T. back in senior year of high school. He went to college; I didn't. He wanted to talk every night and didn't want to go out and get a life; I had college applications and a second-place ranking to worry about. So I dumped him. I sound pretty blase, and I was. It's easy to break up with someone who is very far away (see also: K.N.). It's harder to do when you will see him every day (well, thank god for the lightweights' 6 a.m. practices! No shared buses!) and be around him all the time. It's harder when everything on campus will remind you of him. And when you still have some of his clothes and he has your books and iPod and a pair of shoes and your pillows still smell like him from the last time he slept over (was it really a week ago?) and all you can think about how is that yet another good religious Southern boy loved you and you went and fucked it up because nothing will ever ever ever be good enough for you.
I know this is unforgiveably melodramatic, especially since I'm only 20. But at least count I have had three Great Loves of My Life who all thought they would marry me and whom I hurt, badly, each and every one of them. So I feel like, after fucking with three separate guys' hearts, I am qualified to say that I am irrevocably fucked up and hopeless with love and destined to be alone forever. (I'm allowed to say shit like that. I'm grieving. Leave me alone.)
You know what's sad? I still sleep as if he's with me. Or I usually do. But today when I napped, I slept facing the other way, the wall. And yes, it felt weird.
Shakespeare: Over.
Seminar paper: Am fucked for.
Roman Social: Um.. how long has it been since I've been to that class?
Yeah, I'm screwed. But as Lyla Garrity says, I made my bed. (FNL tomorrow night!)
I think S.W. and I are over. Prague plus my new social life (that's still kind of pathetic and nonexistant) have proven too much for us. But really, you know it's bad when people who barely know me go, "He really only likes you when you're miserable." It's true. I have a personality this year; I'm happy(er); I'm even doing well in crew for the first time since high school. And he can't handle it because he still has nothing. Not that I ever, ever want W.E. to be right about anything, ever, but his nickname for S.W. is apt: Tears. I called him tonight and he just sounded like a beaten-down puppy. In the wise words of Angela Martin, "Sometimes you just need to grow a pair!"
Why do I always end up the man in my relationships? This is exactly like me and B.T. back in senior year of high school. He went to college; I didn't. He wanted to talk every night and didn't want to go out and get a life; I had college applications and a second-place ranking to worry about. So I dumped him. I sound pretty blase, and I was. It's easy to break up with someone who is very far away (see also: K.N.). It's harder to do when you will see him every day (well, thank god for the lightweights' 6 a.m. practices! No shared buses!) and be around him all the time. It's harder when everything on campus will remind you of him. And when you still have some of his clothes and he has your books and iPod and a pair of shoes and your pillows still smell like him from the last time he slept over (was it really a week ago?) and all you can think about how is that yet another good religious Southern boy loved you and you went and fucked it up because nothing will ever ever ever be good enough for you.
I know this is unforgiveably melodramatic, especially since I'm only 20. But at least count I have had three Great Loves of My Life who all thought they would marry me and whom I hurt, badly, each and every one of them. So I feel like, after fucking with three separate guys' hearts, I am qualified to say that I am irrevocably fucked up and hopeless with love and destined to be alone forever. (I'm allowed to say shit like that. I'm grieving. Leave me alone.)
You know what's sad? I still sleep as if he's with me. Or I usually do. But today when I napped, I slept facing the other way, the wall. And yes, it felt weird.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Chuck Season
Um...
I got the Charles boat.
Seriously, no false modesty: you could've knocked me over with a feather. I think I actually turned white when I asked John who was in the New Boat and he was like "you." I think Zimmer thinks I'm crazy because I had to ask after practice (where I'd been coxing the Charles boat) who was coxing on Sunday. He also thinks I'm crazy because he had to tell me to email my mother.
So. Excited. And terrified. I have Pete Cipollone's voice in my head. I am muttering "one, SEND, two on the LEGS, three, DRIVE IT" and "finishes, finishes, finishes" all day, every day, and visualizing the course (and not crashing into Elliot Bridge).
I got the Charles boat.
Seriously, no false modesty: you could've knocked me over with a feather. I think I actually turned white when I asked John who was in the New Boat and he was like "you." I think Zimmer thinks I'm crazy because I had to ask after practice (where I'd been coxing the Charles boat) who was coxing on Sunday. He also thinks I'm crazy because he had to tell me to email my mother.
So. Excited. And terrified. I have Pete Cipollone's voice in my head. I am muttering "one, SEND, two on the LEGS, three, DRIVE IT" and "finishes, finishes, finishes" all day, every day, and visualizing the course (and not crashing into Elliot Bridge).
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Prague or Bust
I want to go to Prague to visit K. This is going to cause severe, severe repercussions with S.W., obvious. But... eh. I'd rather go to Prague. How I'm going to pay for it is another story, of course...
I do love that K and I can only be honest to each other (0r even nice to each other, and he pointed out) when one of us is drunk. But we're talking again, and he doesn't hate me, so it's all good. (Why do I care so much about what he thinks of me?)
Head of the Charles is this weekend. BFD. Drama, drama, drama. We know the rowers who are going, but not the coxswain... sooo much drama. I don't even really want to go, I just want to win, and winning means beating out D and S for the Charles boat. I have very studiously been keeping myself out of the fray to avoid getting my ass beat (I could take S, not so sure about D), but of course I still want it.
We'll see.
I do love that K and I can only be honest to each other (0r even nice to each other, and he pointed out) when one of us is drunk. But we're talking again, and he doesn't hate me, so it's all good. (Why do I care so much about what he thinks of me?)
Head of the Charles is this weekend. BFD. Drama, drama, drama. We know the rowers who are going, but not the coxswain... sooo much drama. I don't even really want to go, I just want to win, and winning means beating out D and S for the Charles boat. I have very studiously been keeping myself out of the fray to avoid getting my ass beat (I could take S, not so sure about D), but of course I still want it.
We'll see.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Resisting the Urge to Post a Melodramatic Title...
As a college student, you're not supposed to want to go home. You're supposed to eschew your small town and dread being at home with your high-school routine. You're supposed to wait out your vacations like prison sentences and get back to the dorms as soon as possible.
Um, am I the only one who doesn't?
I love going home. I need it. It makes me happy. Of course, it also makes me feel like a loser since I don't have the de rigeur tight social network (because, DUH, college is where you meet your bridesmaids, not your husband! OMG!) at school. But... I try not to think about that.
Freshman year, it would always make me sad when I'd go home on a Friday or Saturday, accidentally fall asleep (I never slept freshman year; I had to play catch-up a lot), and wake up the next morning with 0 missed calls on my cell phone. Nobody cared that I wasn't there. No one noticed that I wasn't there—everyone I talked to was thousands of miles away; my boyfriend whom I talked to constantly was in another time zone. I was invisible.
Now it's much the same. I have a few people who might call now. But mostly all I have at school is S.W. In fact, sometimes I think the only reason I'm with him is so I have someone to fall back on after graduation. I mean, otherwise, I'd be alone. And that's too scary to think about.
This is what I think about when I'm home. When I'm not watching TV or doing my laundry or writing overwrought blog posts, that is.
Friday, October 12, 2007
You Can't Slack in NYC
This morning, I was in the locker room with C.D. (lightweight coxswain) after practice. She was changing and shoving her bag into her locker, tying a scarf artfully around her neck (in a studiedly casual-yet-trendy way I could never, ever master) and slinging one of those little leather-with-lots-of-metal purses over her shoulder. In short: she looked way too cool for a Friday afternoon spent napping, which is pretty much all everyone else had on their schedule.
Of course, I got competitive.
"Where are you off to?" I asked oh-so-casually.
"My internship. I have to leave literally as soon as the bus gets back."
"Oh! Me too." (No one is allowed to be busier than me!) "Where do you work?"
"Ralph Lauren. I have a design internship. I get a lot of experience and zzzzzzzz..."
I listened, openly jealous and unable to be happy for her now that she had named an internship (much, much) more prestigious than mine. Bitch.
So I did what any normal girl would do (and, going to school where I do, I kind of don't mean that sarcastically). The minute I had an excuse to get on the internet at work, I typed in my password to eRecruiting and browsed the shit out of the internships. I came up with a pretty solid list:
- Simon & Schuster (duh, publishing!),
- Kaplan (it's in production, which I have no interest in, but whatever, it's PUBLISHING),
- Swiss Finance Academy (I like to pretend that I'm not just another Columbia Wall Street "greed is good" type, but that's because my C+ in Intro to Macroeconomics says I suck at it--if it turns out I was good, I would be ALL OVER that shit--and the possibility of financial solvency post-graduation. And helloooo, this is in Switzerland! Awesome!), and
- another literary agency (just for funsies).
This happens to me every once and a while. I go crazy, in a holy shit my life has no direction and everyone's going somewhere but I'm just another lazy-ass college student with no talents or skills but I'm not even going to grad school like Dad did so I am REALLY fucked, kind of way. I feel like this happens a lot at Barnard and Columbia. I mean, another Writing Fellow, M.S., works at the one of the other agencies that shares our office. Barnard girls are BEGGING to work for someone. We will practically pay people--and I think the Conde Nast girls do, actually, pay to work, if you count the requisite jet-setting and amazing clothes. Fuck, I would pay Anna Wintour to let me fold her fucking scarves and bring her coffee every day.
Why? Because everyone else on this fucking campus is amazing and talented and Going Places. Because Manhattan is rapidly turning into a Wall Street playground inaccessible to plebes without jobs at Goldman or Citi, so if you're not making at least five figures after graduation, say hello to sharing a studio with four strangers in Bushwick (if you're that lucky--do you know how nice Bushwick is now!?!?). Because everyone, and I do mean everyone at CU is getting an internship with a hedge fund or an I-bank and making thousands the summer after their junior year. Because a lucky few Know Someone or are, already, Someone, or even on the Best-Dressed List like a certain other history major in the junior class.
And because I am not any of those things. And I need to catch up because heaven forbid I be left behind.
Of course, I got competitive.
"Where are you off to?" I asked oh-so-casually.
"My internship. I have to leave literally as soon as the bus gets back."
"Oh! Me too." (No one is allowed to be busier than me!) "Where do you work?"
"Ralph Lauren. I have a design internship. I get a lot of experience and zzzzzzzz..."
I listened, openly jealous and unable to be happy for her now that she had named an internship (much, much) more prestigious than mine. Bitch.
So I did what any normal girl would do (and, going to school where I do, I kind of don't mean that sarcastically). The minute I had an excuse to get on the internet at work, I typed in my password to eRecruiting and browsed the shit out of the internships. I came up with a pretty solid list:
- Simon & Schuster (duh, publishing!),
- Kaplan (it's in production, which I have no interest in, but whatever, it's PUBLISHING),
- Swiss Finance Academy (I like to pretend that I'm not just another Columbia Wall Street "greed is good" type, but that's because my C+ in Intro to Macroeconomics says I suck at it--if it turns out I was good, I would be ALL OVER that shit--and the possibility of financial solvency post-graduation. And helloooo, this is in Switzerland! Awesome!), and
- another literary agency (just for funsies).
This happens to me every once and a while. I go crazy, in a holy shit my life has no direction and everyone's going somewhere but I'm just another lazy-ass college student with no talents or skills but I'm not even going to grad school like Dad did so I am REALLY fucked, kind of way. I feel like this happens a lot at Barnard and Columbia. I mean, another Writing Fellow, M.S., works at the one of the other agencies that shares our office. Barnard girls are BEGGING to work for someone. We will practically pay people--and I think the Conde Nast girls do, actually, pay to work, if you count the requisite jet-setting and amazing clothes. Fuck, I would pay Anna Wintour to let me fold her fucking scarves and bring her coffee every day.
Why? Because everyone else on this fucking campus is amazing and talented and Going Places. Because Manhattan is rapidly turning into a Wall Street playground inaccessible to plebes without jobs at Goldman or Citi, so if you're not making at least five figures after graduation, say hello to sharing a studio with four strangers in Bushwick (if you're that lucky--do you know how nice Bushwick is now!?!?). Because everyone, and I do mean everyone at CU is getting an internship with a hedge fund or an I-bank and making thousands the summer after their junior year. Because a lucky few Know Someone or are, already, Someone, or even on the Best-Dressed List like a certain other history major in the junior class.
And because I am not any of those things. And I need to catch up because heaven forbid I be left behind.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Blast From the Past
I was going through my various Blogger accounts (I have a bunch) and trying to figure out which ones I actually used. I had a brief freak-out when Blogger told me it didn't recognize the email for this account, but it's all G now. Point: I deleted my old blog, which had one post. It's from Freshman year (Dec. 15, 2005, to be exactly... so long ago!). Let's see, how much is still true?
"I've always wanted to try out a ditsy personal—Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, Vanderbilt sorority goddess, etc. You know the type: shiny blond hair, Mystic Tanned to death or evaporation, perfect makeup, never caught in sweats (unless it's a Juicy Couture tracksuit with J. Lo's or Eva Longoria's stamp of approval)."
Yep, I still wish I looked like that. My life would be a lot easier. And I still think I should've gone to Vanderbilt (or Washington & Lee—although maybe not, since I'd've probably died of alcohol poisoning a looong time ago), or Davidson. Or even Trinity, which I snidely derided as "prep school part II." Well, having gone to the anti-prep school college for 2 years and change, I realize that I... kinda liked prep school. And I am so jealous of everyone at NESCAC schools.
"I am the opposite: short, frizzy brown hair, paper-white skin, always in pajamas. I don't "dress" for things, and I can't wear makeup. Not in the sense that I don't know how to put it on, but in the if-I-wear-eyeliner-or-lipstick-I-look-like-a-vampire way. Yes, my skin is THAT pale. My face, as Mr. Jay from ANTM might say, doesn't "take makeup" very well."
I am still short. Unless I start taking HGH, that's not going to change. I still have frizzy brown hair (which is being particularly intractable now—thanks a lot, rain!). I don't wear makeup but at certain times of the month I have to wear coverup (thanks, hormones!).
"Other evidence that I don't belong with the other X-chromosomers: I like (no, loooove) Star Wars. I have read LOTR many, many times (but I don't really like the movies). I have a secret weakness for sci-fi/fantasy. I have a well-documented aversion to manis & pedis. I don't like to get dressed up (unless it involves a preppy dress or a polo shirt, in which case I am THERE)."
Awww, this is cute. I was trying to pretend I'm not as vain and self-obsessed as a lot of girls are. I still love Star Wars and LOTR. I still like to pretend I'm living some grand epic—but really, don't we all? But I totally LOVE dressing up. It's the only reason I'd join a sorority. I miss formals. I like pretty dresses. (God, what happened to me? Remember when I used to be a tomboy? S. always laughs whenever I talk about how tough I am. But whatever, I totally am. He's never been hiking with me or seen me ride a horse. I'm a freakin' beast.)
"And I used to "have sex like men"—or I used to, until I fell in love. That's pretty girly. (And yes I am someone who will talk about her boyfriend until everyone's ears fall off nad/or they kill me.)"
HAH! Oh, this is brilliant. What's sad is that this is still mostly true—or was, until my break for emotional freedom—but it's a different boy, a different love. At last count, I've had three Loves of My Life. Serial monogamist or not, I'm pretty flighty.
"Some girly transgressions: Shopping at J.Crew or Polo. Gilmore Girls. ANTM. Project Runway. Grey's Anatomy (duh)."
"Transgressions?" Is it sad that I now don't even bother feeling guilty for any of this anymore? Online shopping, guilty TV (Team LC all the way!)... bring it on.
Conclusion? I was a moron.
The good thing about the internet is that you can always find shit you've written and then make fun of yourself. And maybe even learn from some of it... maybe. But probably not. I'm sure I'll find this blog in two years and just laugh and laugh.
"I've always wanted to try out a ditsy personal—Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, Vanderbilt sorority goddess, etc. You know the type: shiny blond hair, Mystic Tanned to death or evaporation, perfect makeup, never caught in sweats (unless it's a Juicy Couture tracksuit with J. Lo's or Eva Longoria's stamp of approval)."
Yep, I still wish I looked like that. My life would be a lot easier. And I still think I should've gone to Vanderbilt (or Washington & Lee—although maybe not, since I'd've probably died of alcohol poisoning a looong time ago), or Davidson. Or even Trinity, which I snidely derided as "prep school part II." Well, having gone to the anti-prep school college for 2 years and change, I realize that I... kinda liked prep school. And I am so jealous of everyone at NESCAC schools.
"I am the opposite: short, frizzy brown hair, paper-white skin, always in pajamas. I don't "dress" for things, and I can't wear makeup. Not in the sense that I don't know how to put it on, but in the if-I-wear-eyeliner-or-lipstick-I-look-like-a-vampire way. Yes, my skin is THAT pale. My face, as Mr. Jay from ANTM might say, doesn't "take makeup" very well."
I am still short. Unless I start taking HGH, that's not going to change. I still have frizzy brown hair (which is being particularly intractable now—thanks a lot, rain!). I don't wear makeup but at certain times of the month I have to wear coverup (thanks, hormones!).
"Other evidence that I don't belong with the other X-chromosomers: I like (no, loooove) Star Wars. I have read LOTR many, many times (but I don't really like the movies). I have a secret weakness for sci-fi/fantasy. I have a well-documented aversion to manis & pedis. I don't like to get dressed up (unless it involves a preppy dress or a polo shirt, in which case I am THERE)."
Awww, this is cute. I was trying to pretend I'm not as vain and self-obsessed as a lot of girls are. I still love Star Wars and LOTR. I still like to pretend I'm living some grand epic—but really, don't we all? But I totally LOVE dressing up. It's the only reason I'd join a sorority. I miss formals. I like pretty dresses. (God, what happened to me? Remember when I used to be a tomboy? S. always laughs whenever I talk about how tough I am. But whatever, I totally am. He's never been hiking with me or seen me ride a horse. I'm a freakin' beast.)
"And I used to "have sex like men"—or I used to, until I fell in love. That's pretty girly. (And yes I am someone who will talk about her boyfriend until everyone's ears fall off nad/or they kill me.)"
HAH! Oh, this is brilliant. What's sad is that this is still mostly true—or was, until my break for emotional freedom—but it's a different boy, a different love. At last count, I've had three Loves of My Life. Serial monogamist or not, I'm pretty flighty.
"Some girly transgressions: Shopping at J.Crew or Polo. Gilmore Girls. ANTM. Project Runway. Grey's Anatomy (duh)."
"Transgressions?" Is it sad that I now don't even bother feeling guilty for any of this anymore? Online shopping, guilty TV (Team LC all the way!)... bring it on.
Conclusion? I was a moron.
The good thing about the internet is that you can always find shit you've written and then make fun of yourself. And maybe even learn from some of it... maybe. But probably not. I'm sure I'll find this blog in two years and just laugh and laugh.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Is it just me...
... or is American Apparel kind of, well, tacky?
I have this, which I love.
And this (although you need to wear something underneath so the twins don't bounce everywhere... god, I wish I were flat-chested, those bitches can wear anything):
But. Seriously, this?
I rest my case.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Ah, memories...
Images of the '96 Yankees, just to cheer me up:
More on the Yankees later, when I know what I want to write.
I think Joe Torre said it best:
"This ball club, they have a great future. ... This has been a great 12 years. Whatever the hell happens from here on out, I'll look back on these 12 years with great, great pleasure."
More on the Yankees later, when I know what I want to write.
I think Joe Torre said it best:
"This ball club, they have a great future. ... This has been a great 12 years. Whatever the hell happens from here on out, I'll look back on these 12 years with great, great pleasure."
Monday, October 8, 2007
Ugh
It's really annoying when both your eyes decide to freak out at the same time. I'm holed up in my cave of a room, hiding under the covers. I am officially a vampire. No direct sunlight for me.
Although... thank god for Columbus day! Off work, so thanks to my internship MW class schedule of one 11-12:15 class, I am done for the day. Hm, I should probably get around to writing that paper I have due tomorrow at some point... nah. Later's good enough.
Still have to respond to drunk IMs/texts from Saturday night. Worst part of getting drunk: dealing with the shit you've done.
Although... thank god for Columbus day! Off work, so thanks to my internship MW class schedule of one 11-12:15 class, I am done for the day. Hm, I should probably get around to writing that paper I have due tomorrow at some point... nah. Later's good enough.
Still have to respond to drunk IMs/texts from Saturday night. Worst part of getting drunk: dealing with the shit you've done.
Thank You, Captain Obvious
From Jezebel: "Weight-conscious teenage girls are not eating enough calories for their age group. Over one third of 13 to 18-year-old girls in the UK are on diets or have dieted recently, according to a new survey. 45% eat less than 1,200 calories a day -- when the recommended intake for a person in that age range is 2,110 calories. And it's not just the girls who are undernourished: 14% of boys admitted to dieting and 25% ate fewer than 800 calories a day."
No shit! Just from my own observations (i.e., daily life), girls don't eat jack shit, and boys (well, not my heavyweight buddies) barely stuff themselves either. As a culture, we're all anorexic. Okay, I'm indulging in just the teensiest bit of hyperbole here, but... I'm also kind of right. I picture the lunch line at my high school: girls moving up the salad bar, picking at iceberg lettuce and tomatoes and then drizzling vinegar (no oil) on top. Yum.
But it's true. Ask any girl what she eats. Count the calories. It's probably pretty low. Tell her she needs to be eating 2,000 calories a day and she'll freak. I know I can't even fathom eating that much (ewww, do you KNOW how much food that is?!?!? No one eats that much!).
Not like I can talk, of course. I seem to recall a phase when all I ate was Lifesavers. Until I found out they had calories and promptly freaked out. That's actually when I discovered cardio: I had to work off all those calories from Lifesavers.
More on this later, when I can figure out how to write about it.
No shit! Just from my own observations (i.e., daily life), girls don't eat jack shit, and boys (well, not my heavyweight buddies) barely stuff themselves either. As a culture, we're all anorexic. Okay, I'm indulging in just the teensiest bit of hyperbole here, but... I'm also kind of right. I picture the lunch line at my high school: girls moving up the salad bar, picking at iceberg lettuce and tomatoes and then drizzling vinegar (no oil) on top. Yum.
But it's true. Ask any girl what she eats. Count the calories. It's probably pretty low. Tell her she needs to be eating 2,000 calories a day and she'll freak. I know I can't even fathom eating that much (ewww, do you KNOW how much food that is?!?!? No one eats that much!).
Not like I can talk, of course. I seem to recall a phase when all I ate was Lifesavers. Until I found out they had calories and promptly freaked out. That's actually when I discovered cardio: I had to work off all those calories from Lifesavers.
More on this later, when I can figure out how to write about it.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Making Barnard Relevant
I'm not familiar with blogging etiquette, so forgive me if it's a little gauche to post three times on the first day of (virtual) life. This is a rant I wrote Friday in response to this little monstrosity. And since I'm too much of a chicken to send this into Spec Opinion as a submission (I prefer my rants anonymous and free of judgment). So... enjoy:
There couldn’t be a better illustration of the difference between Barnard and Columbia than the In Focus: Student Council Update that ran in the October 5 edition of Spectator. CCSC president Michelle Diamond’s article listed ambitious plans to improve the advising system and to build a sense of community on campus. And while Diamond devoted a paragraph to the environment–this year’s feel-good cause; who can argue against Al Gore?–the SGA piece talked of nothing but its eco-friendly initiatives.
The cloyingly earnest statement that “going green tops the SGA agenda,” as well of the long list of school-funded promotional measures (inter-dorm competitive recycling! Dual-flush toilet mechanisms! And, um, reusable shopping bags?), made me wonder why, exactly, I was paying tuition and what the school’s still-pitifully small endowment was being used for. Call me crazy, but I was dumbfounded that SGA chose to prioritize minimizing Barnard’s carbon footprint over improving our quality of life–especially since the demise of MacIntosh deprives us of the center of student activity at Barnard.
Now, I fully expect a barrage of hate mail from my leggings-clad classmates, but in my opinion, there are plenty of things Barnard could be doing better. As a person who finds myself on Columbia’s campus far more than Barnard’s for the simple reason that everything over there is better–from the gyms to the dorms and yes, even the food–I think Barnard needs to drag itself into the 21st century if it wants to remain at all relevant.
Compare Barnard’s attempt at an internet portal for students, eBear, to the Columbia system. Columbia students take for granted being able to do everything–class registration, housing, even adding Dining Dollars or Flex points to your account–from the comfort of your own dorm room. Small-school coziness aside, our hands-on L-course sign-up process is, frankly, bullshit, as is a registration process that requires our advisers to sign off on everything. Supposedly, our advising system is better than Columbia’s, but as far as I can tell the only difference is that the Barnard system forces someone to hold your hand through processes you, as a college student, should be capable of doing yourself. And don’t even get me started on our housing process. Columbia students think they have it bad? Try having to show up in person with your crappy lottery number and then fight tooth and nail to get through hordes of girls to the layouts that are ever-so-helpfully posted on the walls.
Oh, and another thing: have you seen the “security” in our dorms? In Barnard’s infinite wisdom, it makes more sense to block off the second entrance to Hewitt–creating those wonderful long lines–or to close tunnel access between Sulzberger and Barnard Hall–crucial in light of the gridlock-causing construction plaguing our already cramped campus–than to hire trained professionals or get swipe machines.
I didn’t apply to Columbia for a reason: I liked Barnard better. In my blissful, prefrosh innocence, I never realized just how much Barnard uses Columbia’s far superior resources and facilities as a crutch.
Of course, Barnard has been pretty successful so far at attracting applicants regardless of our second-class citizen status (or it’s just good at concealing that from prospective students). And I don’t delude myself into thinking that this editorial will provoke anything more than angry outburts from Barnard students who love, love, love the way things are now (and have been since the beginning of time). Moreover, I am also well aware that the way things are done at Columbia is not much better; Columbia has a long and well-documented history of tensions between students and the administration.
But it is frankly insulting to be fed the Strong, Beautiful Barnard Woman mantra day in and day out while dealing with substandard and antiquated systems and facilities. And while the Nexus certainly looks impressive on paper, it won’t do much for Barnard as a whole when the rest of the school seems to be lagging at least a couple decades behind Columbia as a whole.
Rant over.
Now, this all raises interesting questions about Barnard's identity. I wish Barnard could keep up with Columbia, at least a little bit. If Barnard touts itself as the student-friendly alternative, then it needs to fucking step up. Right now, Barnard is a morass of construction and detours that break the campus up and squeeze all of us into narrow hallways (there is only one route from anywhere to Milbank, and at rush hour, it becomes impassable). The fact is, Barnard can't compete with Columbia in the areas that matter (an endowment of billions to an endowment of millions... um, I wonder who's going to win).
But Barnard needs to stop resting on its laurels. Barnard is the most smug, self-satisfied institution ever. It can always rest on it's "mission" to raise smart, confident Womyn... without actually supporting them itself. It provides a nice little pond for the meek women to compete in; let's face it, when Barnard girls want to make a name for themselves, they go to Columbia—they write for the Blue & White or the Spec, they do the Varsity Show, whatever. No Barnard girls becomes "famous" on campus just though Barnard and its offerings.
But that just brings me back to the facts. Barnard has no resources to offer anything without Columbia's support, so it needs to do something to differentiate itself from, say, Wellesley or Smith or whatever (besides being the womens' college for dancers). It will never compete with other small liberal arts colleges because it will never have to; it has Columbia. The day it tries to start competing like a normal LAC is the day it is fucked because it just can't. So I'm basically bitching about nothing. But that's my MO.
So I will continue to participate more in Columbia student life and hang out with Columbia students and spend most of my day pretending I don't actually go to Barnard. Not what I wanted out of a college experience, but... you gotta do what you gotta do.
There couldn’t be a better illustration of the difference between Barnard and Columbia than the In Focus: Student Council Update that ran in the October 5 edition of Spectator. CCSC president Michelle Diamond’s article listed ambitious plans to improve the advising system and to build a sense of community on campus. And while Diamond devoted a paragraph to the environment–this year’s feel-good cause; who can argue against Al Gore?–the SGA piece talked of nothing but its eco-friendly initiatives.
The cloyingly earnest statement that “going green tops the SGA agenda,” as well of the long list of school-funded promotional measures (inter-dorm competitive recycling! Dual-flush toilet mechanisms! And, um, reusable shopping bags?), made me wonder why, exactly, I was paying tuition and what the school’s still-pitifully small endowment was being used for. Call me crazy, but I was dumbfounded that SGA chose to prioritize minimizing Barnard’s carbon footprint over improving our quality of life–especially since the demise of MacIntosh deprives us of the center of student activity at Barnard.
Now, I fully expect a barrage of hate mail from my leggings-clad classmates, but in my opinion, there are plenty of things Barnard could be doing better. As a person who finds myself on Columbia’s campus far more than Barnard’s for the simple reason that everything over there is better–from the gyms to the dorms and yes, even the food–I think Barnard needs to drag itself into the 21st century if it wants to remain at all relevant.
Compare Barnard’s attempt at an internet portal for students, eBear, to the Columbia system. Columbia students take for granted being able to do everything–class registration, housing, even adding Dining Dollars or Flex points to your account–from the comfort of your own dorm room. Small-school coziness aside, our hands-on L-course sign-up process is, frankly, bullshit, as is a registration process that requires our advisers to sign off on everything. Supposedly, our advising system is better than Columbia’s, but as far as I can tell the only difference is that the Barnard system forces someone to hold your hand through processes you, as a college student, should be capable of doing yourself. And don’t even get me started on our housing process. Columbia students think they have it bad? Try having to show up in person with your crappy lottery number and then fight tooth and nail to get through hordes of girls to the layouts that are ever-so-helpfully posted on the walls.
Oh, and another thing: have you seen the “security” in our dorms? In Barnard’s infinite wisdom, it makes more sense to block off the second entrance to Hewitt–creating those wonderful long lines–or to close tunnel access between Sulzberger and Barnard Hall–crucial in light of the gridlock-causing construction plaguing our already cramped campus–than to hire trained professionals or get swipe machines.
I didn’t apply to Columbia for a reason: I liked Barnard better. In my blissful, prefrosh innocence, I never realized just how much Barnard uses Columbia’s far superior resources and facilities as a crutch.
Of course, Barnard has been pretty successful so far at attracting applicants regardless of our second-class citizen status (or it’s just good at concealing that from prospective students). And I don’t delude myself into thinking that this editorial will provoke anything more than angry outburts from Barnard students who love, love, love the way things are now (and have been since the beginning of time). Moreover, I am also well aware that the way things are done at Columbia is not much better; Columbia has a long and well-documented history of tensions between students and the administration.
But it is frankly insulting to be fed the Strong, Beautiful Barnard Woman mantra day in and day out while dealing with substandard and antiquated systems and facilities. And while the Nexus certainly looks impressive on paper, it won’t do much for Barnard as a whole when the rest of the school seems to be lagging at least a couple decades behind Columbia as a whole.
Rant over.
Now, this all raises interesting questions about Barnard's identity. I wish Barnard could keep up with Columbia, at least a little bit. If Barnard touts itself as the student-friendly alternative, then it needs to fucking step up. Right now, Barnard is a morass of construction and detours that break the campus up and squeeze all of us into narrow hallways (there is only one route from anywhere to Milbank, and at rush hour, it becomes impassable). The fact is, Barnard can't compete with Columbia in the areas that matter (an endowment of billions to an endowment of millions... um, I wonder who's going to win).
But Barnard needs to stop resting on its laurels. Barnard is the most smug, self-satisfied institution ever. It can always rest on it's "mission" to raise smart, confident Womyn... without actually supporting them itself. It provides a nice little pond for the meek women to compete in; let's face it, when Barnard girls want to make a name for themselves, they go to Columbia—they write for the Blue & White or the Spec, they do the Varsity Show, whatever. No Barnard girls becomes "famous" on campus just though Barnard and its offerings.
But that just brings me back to the facts. Barnard has no resources to offer anything without Columbia's support, so it needs to do something to differentiate itself from, say, Wellesley or Smith or whatever (besides being the womens' college for dancers). It will never compete with other small liberal arts colleges because it will never have to; it has Columbia. The day it tries to start competing like a normal LAC is the day it is fucked because it just can't. So I'm basically bitching about nothing. But that's my MO.
So I will continue to participate more in Columbia student life and hang out with Columbia students and spend most of my day pretending I don't actually go to Barnard. Not what I wanted out of a college experience, but... you gotta do what you gotta do.
Skinny People Styles
You can trace the hipster exodus to Brooklyn along the subway lines. Not like I go downtown all that often (or ever! Leave that hellhole to the NYU kids), so I'm not really qualified to expound on the subject of hipsters and their haunts, but I feel like I've been in New York long enough to at least go on a semi-informed rant about it (and, really, aren't those the best kinds?). But whenever I see a hipster—on the rare times I went out to Bushwick to visit Stef or when that kid on my team is wearing his drainpipe jeans that he loves so much—I usually want to smack him or her. What the fuck are they thinking? And, okay, hipsters and assorted poseurs can wear that shit because they're usually anorexic or on drugs and therefore skinny, but when a trend made for coffee-swilling, cigarette-addicted lunatics becomes mainstream, the world is most assuredly coming to an end.
The first time I became aware of the skinny jean phenomenon was senior year of high school, when a classmate (now maybe-gay, RISD '09) began wearing womens' jeans—openly! Even bragging about it! Now, I went to a New England prep school, a place ruled by hockey players so confident in their (hetero)sexuality that they stalked the halls in outfits of riotous pastels and not exactly known for its acceptance of alternative lifestyles (unless you were a lesbian! Holy shit, dude, that's wicked hot, man, they should totally videotape it and send it to me!). I was friends with the "artsy" kids who listened to Iron & Wine and the Shins before Zach Braff made them cool, but their fashion choices were still pretty mainstream. So when A. began wearing womens' clothing, it was kind of a big deal. And depressing: He was so fucking skinny he could fit into our clothes! Crap, better throw up lunch and run for an hour. (But that's neither here nor there.)
Anyhoo. I always thought that was just a weird personality quirk of A.'s, another way for him to prove how Bohemian and Carefree he was. No cultural norms for HIM. As it happens, he was just a little bit more in tune with the rest of the world than we were. Who could've guessed that skinny jeans would explode like they did? Don't people know that they look awful on anyone whose legs exceed the width of toothpicks or anyone who isn't lucky enough to have a flat ass? Honestly, skinny jeans are the death of girls that aren't shaped like an Olsen twin.
But—like leggings, another dangerous and worrisome trend that shows no signs of fading into oblivion—that doesn't stop people from wearing them. Even girls that really, really shouldn't.
There's a girl, also BC'09, who is shall-we-say chubby (read: whale). Freshman year, she was infamous for unwittingly flashing everyone at Nacho's (RIP) and for dancing on bars in too-short skirts. But since she could easily crush a man's skull with her thighs, no one wanted to see that much of her flesh. I never knew whether to pity her for her self-delusion or admire her for her Michael Scott-like, teflon self-confidence. Until she began wearing a tight, just-above-the-crotch-length jean skirt with black leggings. And then I just felt sad for her, since clearly she lacked access to a mirror.
(Slight digression. Here's a hint [and this extends to the also-regrettable trend of dresses over jeans]: if it's too cold to wear a skirt or dress without something underneath it, JUST WEAR PANTS. Similarly, if it's hot enough to wear those booty shorts or a pornographic skirt, you don't need to be wearing fur-lined boots. This is the Northeast. We have seasons; it's what makes us far superior to California or Florida. Dress appropriately.)
It's actually very simple. When in doubt, refer to Urban Dictionary: "SKINNY JEANS are not for fat bitches. It's [sic] for girls who have no big hips, no stomach, and skinny legs." Learn it, love it, live it.
The first time I became aware of the skinny jean phenomenon was senior year of high school, when a classmate (now maybe-gay, RISD '09) began wearing womens' jeans—openly! Even bragging about it! Now, I went to a New England prep school, a place ruled by hockey players so confident in their (hetero)sexuality that they stalked the halls in outfits of riotous pastels and not exactly known for its acceptance of alternative lifestyles (unless you were a lesbian! Holy shit, dude, that's wicked hot, man, they should totally videotape it and send it to me!). I was friends with the "artsy" kids who listened to Iron & Wine and the Shins before Zach Braff made them cool, but their fashion choices were still pretty mainstream. So when A. began wearing womens' clothing, it was kind of a big deal. And depressing: He was so fucking skinny he could fit into our clothes! Crap, better throw up lunch and run for an hour. (But that's neither here nor there.)
Anyhoo. I always thought that was just a weird personality quirk of A.'s, another way for him to prove how Bohemian and Carefree he was. No cultural norms for HIM. As it happens, he was just a little bit more in tune with the rest of the world than we were. Who could've guessed that skinny jeans would explode like they did? Don't people know that they look awful on anyone whose legs exceed the width of toothpicks or anyone who isn't lucky enough to have a flat ass? Honestly, skinny jeans are the death of girls that aren't shaped like an Olsen twin.
But—like leggings, another dangerous and worrisome trend that shows no signs of fading into oblivion—that doesn't stop people from wearing them. Even girls that really, really shouldn't.
There's a girl, also BC'09, who is shall-we-say chubby (read: whale). Freshman year, she was infamous for unwittingly flashing everyone at Nacho's (RIP) and for dancing on bars in too-short skirts. But since she could easily crush a man's skull with her thighs, no one wanted to see that much of her flesh. I never knew whether to pity her for her self-delusion or admire her for her Michael Scott-like, teflon self-confidence. Until she began wearing a tight, just-above-the-crotch-length jean skirt with black leggings. And then I just felt sad for her, since clearly she lacked access to a mirror.
(Slight digression. Here's a hint [and this extends to the also-regrettable trend of dresses over jeans]: if it's too cold to wear a skirt or dress without something underneath it, JUST WEAR PANTS. Similarly, if it's hot enough to wear those booty shorts or a pornographic skirt, you don't need to be wearing fur-lined boots. This is the Northeast. We have seasons; it's what makes us far superior to California or Florida. Dress appropriately.)
It's actually very simple. When in doubt, refer to Urban Dictionary: "SKINNY JEANS are not for fat bitches. It's [sic] for girls who have no big hips, no stomach, and skinny legs." Learn it, love it, live it.
We'll See
Does the world really need another blog? Like, really?
Probably not. Actually, definitely not. There are tons. Tons of people who want people to look at them. Not going to lie. I pride myself on not being an attention whore (because I hate girls like that, more than life itself), but... sometimes, I just like an outlet for my vitriolic internal monologue.
Oh, ok. Sometimes I'll try to say meaningful stuff, too. But not that often. I mean, I go to Barnard. I'm brainless.
Probably not. Actually, definitely not. There are tons. Tons of people who want people to look at them. Not going to lie. I pride myself on not being an attention whore (because I hate girls like that, more than life itself), but... sometimes, I just like an outlet for my vitriolic internal monologue.
Oh, ok. Sometimes I'll try to say meaningful stuff, too. But not that often. I mean, I go to Barnard. I'm brainless.
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