WAFFLE MUST DIE - PART II

So Katy and I put our heads together and tried to devise the best game plan for killing Waffle. We debated over which traps to use. Katy wanted something humane. I wanted something gruesome and painful looking.

We compromised on a trap that was gruesome, yet tastefully concealed within a small black container…so you don’t have to witness the gore (snoozesville if you ask me).

We were both pleased with ourselves when Katy brought the traps home. She set them and put them in the kitchen as I watched. “See you in hell, Waffle” I said, and then a minute later added “…from Heaven.”

I rushed out of bed the next morning, but found nothing. Nothing for a week. And then one morning, Katy called me from the hallway. “You will never believe this.”

She stood hovering over one of the traps. I joined her, and was amazed by what I saw. The lid to the concealed trap had been removed and placed about 6 or 7 inches away. The rest had been dissembled, and the food in the center was gone.

“I’m scared” I told Katy.
“Me too.” she said, as we huddled next to each other.

So that night, when I returned from work I went straight to the mouse trap section of our local grocery store (which, I might add, had quite a large selection…not a good sign). Forget this fancy pant trap shit, I thought to myself. I bought a stack of the old fashion kind. The label had a dancing cartoon mouse with X’s for eyes. It therefore had to be good.

I took the traps home, and Katy and I sat down at the kitchen table to load them. For over 40 minutes, she and I struggled to set just one. They were constructed with only three pieces. How could it be this confusing? Every time I thought I had conquered the trap, the bar would come crashing onto my thumb. Same went for Katy, who while clutching her bruised and swollen fingers, looked at me with tears in her eyes and said “We are two college educated kids. Why can’t we figure this out?”

Finally Katy figured one out, and together we set the rest and placed them around the apartment. Two in the hall closet and two in the kitchen. And yet another week went by with no capture. Katy had seen Waffle running across the kitchen counter, so we reluctantly put a trap up there. Another week or two and still nothing. I said to Katy, “I wonder if he moved out?”

“Oh yeah?” she said, leading me into the kitchen. “Then what’s THIS!?” She pointed to a small piece of mouse droppings on the counter top. What I couldn’t get was why would she let mouse shit sit on top of the counter without cleaning it up. “Are you saving this to prove to me we have a mouse?” I asked.

We decided that maybe the peanut butter was maybe not the best bait. After weeks of sitting out, it had grown hard and crusty. I crumbled up an entire cookie and sprinkled its crumbs over the trap on the counter. How could a mouse resist a cookie?

The next morning, I ran to the trap to see if my scheme had worked. The trap was empty. And by empty, I mean of everything. An entire cookie’s worth of crumbs…gone. Even the crusty peanut butter was gone. That trap was licked clean. How could that even be possible? How could Waffle get his head right in the most sensitive part of the trap and not set it off?

“Did you ever read that book about the country mice and the city mice?” Katy asked me. “Here’s the thing. We’re dealing with city mice, and frankly Chris, you and me…we’re the simple country mice.”

I had had it. I was ready to admit defeat and throw in the towel. We would have to call in professionals, or just accept Waffle as our third roommate.

Defeated, I went to bed. The comfort I had felt before Kathy had come visit had long been replaced with a sense of disgust and unease. I was sharing my apartment with disgusting, diseased animals, and there was nothing I could do about it. I awoke, and with my head hung down, I walked towards the bathroom. In route, I saw a grey lump out of the corner of my eye lying atop the counter.

A mixture of joy and repulsion filled my stomach. There was Waffle, on top of the counter, crushed under the trap's heavy arm. We had caught him. After he had licked the trap clean, he had greedily come back for more. And now he was dead. Dead and most likely burning in Hell where he belonged.

I got close to him, and starting down at his long tail, I screamed like a frighten little girl. Katy came running out of the bathroom. “Did we catch Waffle?” Together we rejoiced.

“I can’t believe we finally caught him,” I said as I opened up the closet to get out the broom to sweep the remains off the counter. As I opened the door, I screamed again. Katy poked her head into the closet “Looks like we caught Pancake as well…”

We had placed a third trap in the far back end of the closet. At this time, it was concealed, so Katy grabbed the broom and pulled it into view. As she pulled it, we saw another long tail dragging behind it.   We were running out of breakfast foods to name them after. 

We were confused as to how to feel. On one hand, we had killed three mice in one night. On the other, we had been working under the misguided conception that we had been dealing with one mouse. I think deep down, we both understood that there were more, and our slaughter had forced to face reality.

We took turns sweeping their carcasses into the trash can. As Katy swept hers, the little mouse body kept getting caught on the lip of can. Repeatable, she banged the deceased mouse hard against the plastic container, before finally getting it to go in. 

We held each other’s hands as we carried the trash bag to the street corner. We walked to the curb with a sense of accomplishment, like the victors of an epic battle. Oh, the wars not over, I'm sure. But I just hope mice think twice about sticking their nose in my apartment.
The END (?)

WAFFLE MUST DIE - PART I

I can say without hyperbole that finding an apartment in New York is the hardest thing anyone has ever had to do, ever. Finding my current apartment was an absolute unholy nightmare. To be honest, I still haven’t recovered from the experience – not enough to write about it in my blog at least. That, my friends, is a story for another day.

No, this is a much different tale. To set the scene, let me first give you a little background information. After a horrifically traumatic search, my friend Katy and I finally found an apartment we could agree on. It’s big, in a nice neighborhood, and cheap. We thought we were in Heaven…or at least Purgatory…or at least not in Hell anymore.

So together, the two of us moved into our new apartment in early September. It remained sparse, however…mostly because I had volunteered to furnish it, and well frankly, I suck. It was hard to feel comfortable in a place that’s only seating consisted of a broken recliner, and as a result, I shied away from inviting friends to come visit me.

My friend Kathy came in town however, and was excited to come see my new place. How could I say no to Kathy? When Kathy asks you if she can come over, you say yes dammit. So I invited her and her fiancé John to dinner, and in a raging panic, I cleaned my apartment from top to bottom. Worried that word my get out about how I live in squalor, I enlisted the help of Katy. As I turned a broken stool into a decorative end table, Katy recovered two kitchen chairs with an old curtain. We then split up and scrubbed down every square inch till the stench of bleach brought tears to our eyes. By the end, the place looked better than it ever had. Katy and I admired our work, and for the first time, I felt like I was home.

Kathy and John’s visit only affirmed my sense of comfort. Despite the lack of seating, they both complimented the apartment. I was both relieved and excited. Maybe my apartment wasn’t a shit hole after all.

Wrong.

I saw my friends out, and then ran back to tell Katy all the great things they had said about our apartment. “WE FOOLED THEM INTO THINKING WE LIVE LIKE ADULTS!” I started to shout. But as I opened the door, I came upon a bazaar scene that stopped me dead in my tracks. Katy, in her pajamas, stood atop one of her newly refinished curtain chairs, hoisting a cardboard box above her head. I stood in the doorway, the door still open behind me, and she turned and stared at me. Her eyes were big, and for a long moment, we just stared at each other.

I waited for an explanation, and when one didn’t come, I finally asked “Um, what the fuck are you doing?”

There was another pause...with us just staring at each other. And then finally, Katy gathered herself and said in a low whisper:

“Mouse.”

“Fucking A!” I shouted. I hate mice. I hate mice more than I hate the Olsen Twins. They disgust me, with their beady eyes and long tails. I hate them. I fucking hate them.

“I saw him run into the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. I think he went under the stove," she told me as I helped her off the chair.

“What are you doing with the box?” I asked.

“Well, I was going to throw on top of him and trap him in it,” she told me. I didn’t need to tell her she was a giant idiot (although I may have anyway, I don’t quite remember). She pretty much figured it out before she could complete her explanation, and without a breath she tacked on “I DON'T KNOW, I WAS PANICKED!”

Silence fell between the two of us. We looked at the ground, and then at eachother.

“Can we name him?” I asked.

“NO YOU CAN’T NAME THE DAMN MOUSE! WE HAVE TO KILL HIM! ARE YOU INSANE?”

Silence, again. After a moment, Katy looked at the stove, and then back at me.

“How about Waffle?”
to be continued…

SO WHAT DO YOU DO?

I hate meeting new people. Most of you know this about me. When put into social settings, you can usually find me in the corner next to the beer with my arms folded over my chest, and what many strangers have called "a grumpy looking face.” I seriously have yet to go to a bar without someone coming over to me and asking “what’s it going to take to get you to smile?” or the slightly less flattering “what the hell is your problem?”

Why the awkwardness? I’m not very good at making small talk. When meeting new people in college, it was always “so…what’s your major?” I enjoyed talking about my major as much as I enjoyed listening to people talk about theirs. I looked forward to graduation when I could put this behind me, but found that this question was only replaced with “so…what do you do?”

“What do you do?” What kind of bullshit question is that anyway? I do a lot of shit. I laugh at hobos. I eat breath mints I find on the floor. I snack on bacon bits as if they were potatoes chips. I watch Forensic Files reruns every night at 11. As for what I do for a living…well, that’s a little more complicated, and I don’t see why I should have to explain every time I meet somebody new.

When people ask you “so what do you do?” they’re looking for a one to two word summation, tops. They don’t really care about what you do, it’s just a formality. It’s the same as asking someone how they’re doing. You don’t want their life story. You want “fine” or maybe even an “alright?” That’s it. Anything more is unwelcomed. Same goes when you ask someone what they do. You want a quick answer, like “fireman,” or “ventriloquist,” or “child pornographer.”

When I first started working at my new job, I didn’t know how to sum up what I did into a concise answer. Time and time again, I would watch as people eyes glazed over in the middle of my explanation. “Well, it’s complicated” I would warn. “Change the subject now” was what I was really trying to say. I would begin my rant as if reading from a script…”I work at an agency that represents hair and makeup artists, set designers, and wardrobe stylists….” I hated myself for saying it, but frankly, they asked for it. I had to give a long, drawn out speech. I didn’t know what else to say! What was I suppose to tell them? - “I don’t want to talk about it." They had backed me into a corner, and force me to be that guy that no one likes – the guy who talks about his job as if others might care. It disgusted me, and I could tell it disgusted others just listening to it. Most of the time, people would either start talking to someone else as soon as I had finished, or they would completely misunderstand what I said. “So, you’re a makeup artist?”

I told my aunt Shelia about my problem, and she told me she always felt the same way. “I tell people I’m a professional juggler,” she told me. “When I first met your uncle, I knew he was the man for me when he asked ‘Have you ever tired using live chickens in your act?’”

So following my aunt Shelia’s lead, I reinvented myself with every conversation. Sometimes I was a subway driver. Sometimes I was a pet store owner. But mostly, the best I could come up with was “Uh….juggler….” I had to stop though. The guilt was becoming too much, not only for stealing my aunts line, but for butchering as badly as I did. My delivery, most often jumbled by alcohol, came out mangled and deformed…something like “Juggler…chickens…alive….use….me?”

So, after struggling with lying, I decided honesty was the best policy. People asked me what I did, I was straight up about it. “I answer the phones, clean out the fridge, and make copies of really tiny receipts taped to big pieces of paper.” The reaction I got was amazing. “ME TOO!” they would shout. A small congregation of no-bodies would form around me. “Don’t you hate it when papers get clogged into the copier?” They would ask. “What’s the deal with powdered toner?”

Some time, well after I had come to terms with my inability to sum up my occupation into an acceptable three word answer, I was asked to post a job listing for an intern. I asked the girl next to me “What do you think a good title for the ad should be?” She responded “How ‘bout ‘Artist Management Agency seeks intern’”

And there it was. Artist Management Agency. Perhaps I could converse like a normal person after all. Although it's doubtful. I’ve found that conversations about anything other than ink cartridges and recycled paper bore me.

EMPLOYED

I have some big news people. The last two months have really been draining. Living at home, going to the pool everyday, and never paying for anything can really be exhausting. But THANKFULLY this will all being coming to a screeching halt in the not-so-distant future. That’s right people. I would like to officially announce that I finally got a job.

Many of you thought it would never happen. I forgive you assholes, because frankly, I didn’t either. Up until last week, I had tried almost nothing to get a job, and I was running out of ideas. But then, it happened.

For the last week, I’ve been in New York, interviewing like a mad man. My fake-uncle/hero Shawn had me running around town, interviewing with just about anyone who would see me. By Thursday, I was beat. My feet were bruised in bloody from running around in the shoes that Shawn gave me to wear (yes, not only did Shawn and his officemates set up all my interviews, but they also gave me clothes to wear to them. Because they said I dress like a Maury Povich guest.) My back hurt, and I had sweated through my last pair of underwear. Without any promising leads, I was downtrodden.

But Shawn called and woke me up at 8:30. “What are you still doing in bed you lazy piece of shit?!” he shouted. “I have two interviews for you today, and I have a feeling about these ones. I predict you’ll have a job by the end of the day.”

So I went to the two interviews, and by the end of the day, I had not one, but two job offers.

So there it is. I'll be working at a fantastic  company that represents stylists and set designers. I start on Monday, so I’m moving up to NYC this Friday. I’m a little nervous about everything, mostly because I don’t have an apartment lined up yet. I’ll just be bouncing around, between staying with friends and house sitting until I get a place of my own. But it’s really exciting, having my first real job and moving to New York by myself. I think it’s official. Little Chrissy is all grown up.

Tear.

MUST SEE NEW YORK

I wouldn’t say that I’m a complicated man. For the most part, I can keep myself pretty well entertained. Movies, plays, concerts, foxy boxing, are all fine, but unnecessary. I much rather sit at home and twiddle my thumb (which, coincidently, is my code name for masturbating). However, being human, I do have certain weaknesses - things that not only entertain me to no end, but that I actively seek out during my daily routine. These weaknesses include: hobos, reruns of My Two Dads, and of course, the elderly. Luckily for me, watching the aforementioned are usually free, but if there was a charge I would gladly pay it.

I’m currently staying in New York City, which shall henceforth be known as the Must-See-TV capital of hobo and the elderly watching. Usually it’s the simple things, like an 80 year old man holding up the cross-town bus as he pays his fare in pennies and nickels. Most people mutter something under their breath and return to reading their newspaper. Not me though. I move closer and root for him to drop his change purse or lose count so he’ll have to start over again. The other day at Duane Reid, I stood behind a woman who must have been in her mid 60’s. She had bleach blond hair, bright red lipstick all over her face, and a pink tank top that said “trash” across the chest. While I watched her argue with the cashier over the price of butterfly shaped hair clips, I thought to myself “turn this into a play, and I’d buy front row seats.”

And hobos I find equally amusing. I will gladly pay a dollar to any homeless person willing to entertain me with a song and dance – the more off-tune or the less appendages, the better. But this afternoon I observed what could only be described as the “Who Shot J.R episode” of hobo and elderly watching. Returning home from an exhausting day of job hunting, I came back to my friend’s apartment to find the maid doing her dirty business. To get out of her hair, I grabbed a book and went down to the park at the end of the street. In route, a bird with terrific aim had what I would term “explosive diarrhea” all over my head. So, after returning to the maid-filled apartment once again, rinsing my hair and getting a hat, I was back on my way.

Now, having had a bird shit on my head, I wasn’t in the best of moods. All I wanted to do was lay down and watch some public access television, but I couldn’t. So there I sat, begrudgingly reading the a book on a bench.

I was getting into my book when I heard a commotion. Sitting across from me were three odd companions all together on a bench. One was an elderly woman. Had I not seen some sort of nurse-companion dump her there, I would have assumed she had lived in that very spot for years. People that old don’t move. She was tiny and withered, and covered in liver spots. In stark contrast to her 100 year old face, her hair was amusingly dyed bright red, with lipstick and clothing equally as bright. I’m sure whoever her stylist is gets some sort of sick pleasure dressing her – like kids in a biology class playing with a skeleton model.

Next to her was a fat, bearded hobo. He looked like a laid-off Santa Claus, covered in dirt from head to toe. His white beard had turned yellow, and his white t-shirt had turned brown. He puffed away at a pipe, only furthering the Santa Claus vibe.

Next to him was a well dressed, elderly black man, I’m guessing to be in his mid 60s. By the time I observed the strange trio, elderly black man had jumped out of his seat and grabbed his cane in one swift move. On his face, he wore a look mixed with horror and anger. He looked back at the hobo and yelled, “did you just shit yourself?"

The hobo looked at him, and with an unchanging expression, and started rattling off gibberish I couldn’t understand. I thought perhaps I couldn’t understand him because I was too far away, so I moved closer. However, on closer inspection, it was, in fact, pure gibberish.

“You STINK!” screamed the old guy.
“rahrahruahruahRUHrhahrah,” said the hobo.

Unphased by the nonsensical ramblings, the old guy continued to argue with the hobo, who remained fixed in his seat next to the old woman. “You STINK!” was his mantra. His emphasis on “stink” not only implied that the man smelled bad, but that he should be damned to Hell for it. He repeated it over and over again, as if yelling at him would make the stink go away. The old man didn’t move away from the smell, however, as I would assume the most rational plan of action after encountering a stinky hobo would be. He just stood there, in the very same spot only a foot away, and screamed “You STINK!” over and over again.

A few minutes passed, and the old man was now walking around the bench in circles, repeating loudly “You STINK! You STINK!” The hobo was continuing to spout off his own line of argument, “rahrahurhruahrauhraurahrauahRAHruah.” At this point, the hobo started laughing to himself. The old guy disappeared. And the elderly woman, who up until this point had yet to so much as blink, shot up as rapidly as she could, and started wobbling towards a seat near me. I wasn’t sure if she was actually walking, or simply vibrating along, but I could tell – this was as fast as this thing could go.

“YOU FUCKING SHAT YOURSELF AGAIN YOU CRAZY MOTHER FUCKER!” screamed the disembodied voice of the older gentleman.  The hobo simply laughed. 

The old woman had settled in a seat next to me. The excited look that had sprung across her face had disappeared, and had returned to the blank expression from before. I leaned over and said in a loud voice, “So is it true what they? Does that guy stink?” She didn’t so much as blink.

A few minutes later, and the hobo was up and moving. The old guy had sprung forth as if from no where, and was once again yelling his two word mantra “You STINK!” The fact that the hobo only spoke in word fragments only incensed the old guy more. As I got up to leave, I could still hear him shouting “You STINK! You STINK!”

And for the first time, I thought to myself, “I love New York.”

ALWAYS A BRIDES MAID...

There comes a point in every boy’s life where he must watch his older brother get married. Well…every boy who has an older brother. Well…every boy who has an older brother that gets married. Anyway, Saturday was my turn, and what a magical evening it was. I got to watch my older/taller/more gainfully employed brother marry a wonderful young woman, all within full reach of an open bar.


The festivities weren’t without a few minor setbacks. There were the parents who were unacquainted with the benefits of “getting directions,” or “bringing a map.” Then there was the limo driver who was unfamiliar with the complex workings of “air-conditioning” as well as “the pant zipper.” And who could forget the caterers who, in their entire three weeks in this great country, had yet to be introduced to “a keg.”


But in the hole…the night was an astounding success (and how could it not be with an open bar?). The one groomsmanly job bestowed upon me was that I was put in charge of taking the “do you have any thing to say to the bride and groom” video. Selecting me for this task would be something my older brother would soon regret. As the night got progressively…drunker, the more cleavage appeared in my video. By the end of the video, it didn’t matter who was I taping…CLEAVAGE. 400 lbs? Didn’t matter. 60 years old? Didn’t matter. My grandmother? Didn’t matter. If they had breasts, my camera was pointed down their shirt.


So good times were had by all. Congrats T.J. and Heidi. Love you guys.

MY FIFTEEN SECONDS

So late last night, my dear friend Katy called me to catch up. Like a password into a secret club, we asked the obligatory question:

“You still jobless?”
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah.”

Had the answer been “No” the conversation would have quickly ended there. The thing about being jobless is it becomes difficult to relate to people with a pay check (unless, of course they’re offering to buy you food). We immediately started playing the “Whose has the Bleakest Job Prospects” game. Katy won when she divulged that she had worked as a camera-person for the Loudoun County Access Television channel twice in the last month.  Her story reminded me of an event that transpired only a few short weeks before.

I had returned to New York for a couple of days for a job interview. After meeting a Broadway casting director who would later describe me as “quiet and hard to read," I called my friend Kathy to see if she wanted to go to the Met.  We spent the afternoon there, and afterwards we returned to my apartment and collapsed underneath the AC unit.  I grabbed the remote and began flipping through the TV channels, until I came across the most awesome show ever made.

I was no stranger to New York Cable Access. Late at night, it provides the lowest quality  pornography the City has to offer. While these shows aren’t exactly “arousing,” they make for good drinking games. “Drink anytime Robin Byrd licks her own nipple.” “Drink any time the phrase dirty horny slut Asian nurses is used.”  Watching it during the day, however, was a completely new experience. We found what I believe was called "The Bob and Carol Hour."  Carol, with her bleached permed hair, and Bob with his pleated shorts, sat in metal folding chairs in front of a grey sheet and beside some piece of large computer equipment. There, they covered all the day’s pressing issues, like cab drivers who don't speak English, and why going to the dentist is the worst.  They delivered their banter straight into the camera, with their heads locked into position like one of those talking animatronic bears you see on an amusement park ride. The discussion went a little something like this:

Carol- So in news today, I see that Brangelina had its baby. I bet they name it something stupid.
Bob- What’s the deal with celebrities naming their children stupid names?
Both- HAHAHAHAHA.
Carol- You’re funny.
Bob- Thanks. Now, moving onto our next topic...

I was completely enthralled.  Kathy, apparently lacking the my enthusiasm for really bad television, got up and said "I'm going to the bathroom.  When I get back, this shit better be off the TV."

It was around this time that they started flashing a number at the bottom of the screen. Bob and Carol, having just shared their observations on how taxicab drivers don’t speak English very well, were now taking their first caller. I quickly grabbed the phone and repeatably dialed.  Once, twice, five times, six.  The phone just rang each time.  And just when I was about to give up, I heard the line beep in. What was I going to say? Something witty and clever no doubt. Something hysterical that I could tell everyone at cocktail parties. Something that I could send into “Life in these United States.” It was going to be something so incredibly funny and perfect that it would be what the entire city of New York would talk about the next day.

About this time Kathy walked out of the bathroom. “What are you doing?” she asked.  I froze.

“Hello?” Bob asked. It was my moment to shine, but my mind was completely blank.  The silence on the TV program was deafening.  Kathy was standing over me, completely confused why I was holding a phone and staring at the TV.  I was kicking myself for having had the genius idea to call into this completely awful show, but not having the foresight to plan what I was going to say. I had had the brilliant I had to think of something.  Anything. 

“Um...." I finally sputtered out.  "...Is...um....Is...Kathy there?” It was the best I could do. Kathy - hearing my voice being projected from the television muttered "Holy shit."

Bob and Carol looked at each other confused, but then mischievously snickered when they saw the possibility for high-jinx.  I had put them on the spot by pretending to have called the number, which they took as an opportunity to use as a platform to show the greater NYC area their improvisational prowess.  


They both started to speak at the same time, but Bob spoke louder and said “Uh...Kathy’s not here!” They both laughed, covering their mouths to prevent their chuckles from being heard on the other line.

“Oh,” I said, “That's so weird.  Kathy gave me this number and told me to call her. Let me make sure I dialed the right number," to which I read them back the number at the bottom of the screen. 

Bob bit his bottom lip as an attempt to muffle his laughter.  He then corrected himself.  “Kathy is here...she just can’t come to the phone right now. Can we take a message?” I imagined how riveting this exchange must have been for the tens of viewers tuned in. 

I had taken the conversation as far as I could.  With nothing else to say, I ended by saying, “Wait, this isn't right. This is the wrong number, isn't it?  Screw you guys.” Bob and Carol were stumbling over one another to come up with a witty retort as I hung up the phone.    They stopped mid-sentence, looked at one another and laughed one last time.  "That reminds me. Don’t you hate telemarketers?” Bob continued.  Thus putting an end to my fifteen minutes of fame.  


Kathy was staring at me with a grimace on her face.  "What the hell was that?"
"I was trying to be funny" I told her. 
"Not your best material" she said.  We agreed, and decided to leave the comedy in the more capable hands of Bob and Carol. 

CUT IT OUT

In a desperate attempt to find work, I’ve been sending my resume out like a mad man. Mostly because if I have to sit through one more Paula Dean marathon I think I will die. Like, the next time I hear her say “From my kitchen to Your’ns,” my head will literally explode.

This is how I’ve been going about it; Craiglist now has job listings on there. Have they always had job listings? Who knows, but the point is they have them now, and I’ve been whoring myself out on them like it ain’t not thang. So, every night I search through these job listings in the field of my choice, and respond to about 10 or 15 of them. I send along my little resume along with a link to my online portfolio, and hope for the best.

Well, as of last Friday I was all ready to give this method a rest. I had sent my resume out to countless postings and heard nothing. Not a damn word. I put a tracker on my online portfolio, and the only person to have visited it was in Duluth. I don’t even know where Duluth is.

So I’m already to give up, but then I found this listing on there. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was like someone knew I was looking for work and they tailored it just for me. The listing described a small Northern Virginia advertising agency in need of a jr. graphic designer. “Our clients include fortune 500, and other big names. We’re a small office that has a lot of fun, and we’re looking for someone to join the team.”

“We’re looking for a Jr. Graphic Designer for our In-House design” – check (especially in the Junior Department)

"Who has experience in advertising” – check.

“Must have a portfolio!” – check.

“and who is FUN!!!” – Fun? I'm a fucking blast.

My faith in craigslist restored, I slaved over the ideal cover letter. I needed something that said “FUN!!!” without being too “FUN!!!” My first draft had jokes such as “I have a PhD in PHUN!” and “I have my own transportation – a ’93 Buick Station Wagon known to me as DJ Jazzy Jeff.” I showed a friend to see if I had reached the desired level of “FUN!!!”  His response…”This will be our little secret.”
 
Back to square one, I trashed my previous draft and decided to never try to be funny again.  I typed up some no thrills letter, attached my resume, and hurried to send it in.  When I went to pull up the email address off of the posting, I noticed something about this perfect job listing…something I hadn’t noticed before. The email was to soinso@SUPERCOUPS.BIZ. So I googled “supercoups," and what came up?

Supercoups – “Are you intrigued by the idea of owning your own business? Does an opportunity that fully utilizes your sales expertise, can be run from your home, and has low start-up costs sound right for you? SuperCoups offers the flexibility, independence and income potential you seek combined with the strategies, support and tools you need.”

Yes, SuperCoups is a franchised coupon business.  Which is to say; not an advertising agency. I looked back over the craiglist posting, and began to tear it apart.  A portfolio? Does laying out a "Buy one - get one free" Calci-Chew coupon need a full on creative director? I understood now that when they wrote "In-house design," they literally meant IN THEIR HOUSE. I was pissed. I spent days on my cover letter. DAYS! And for what? So that I could get an interview at a coupon factory? A COUPON FACTORY?

And the WORST part is they never called me back.

POOFY HAIRED FREAK

Dear Blog Readers,

My job search currently has me too depressed to write about my life. Instead, I will amuse you with this picture from my childhood. Please enjoy.

Christopher

Me- Circa 1995. 5th grade Field Day.

I would like to note that while the shirt was made for Field Day Festivities, it DID manage to work its way into my regular wardrobe.

JOB INTERVIEWS

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FINAL FINAL

I’m sure you’ve all noticed my blogery absence. My apologies. I know how you all live from post to post - your cursor steadily floating above the refresh button with the hopes that I have posted sometime within the last 20 seconds. However, the last few weeks have been packed with life-altering events…so much so, I haven’t been able to find time to sit down and write about them.

Now, when I made this blog, I set out to create a space where I could relive all the inane and inconsequential misadventures that make up my day to day life. I wanted to avoid dry posts about where my life is going etc, why? Because I had my doubts that anyone really cares. But judging by the number of times I’ve had to answer “so what now,” I’ve considered the possibility that I may be wrong.

So to give you insight as to what I’ve been planning to do with my life, I’m going to recap the major events of the last couple weeks. I’m going to do so in a series of installments. Tonight’s is the story of my very last examination ever. Please, enjoy.

Final Final

On April the 12th, at approximately 9 am, I took my very last final of my college career. I would have been excited, however the Powers that Be decided to place my hardest final on the very last day of the examination period. (Here’s a fun Chris Miles fact for you. I have had a final on the last day of the examination period every semester since my very first 4 years ago. What are the fucking chances?) Earning my politics degree hinged on me getting a C in this class that I was currently holding a B- in. To make matters worse, the final was identifying 10 quotes pulled from the 9 books we were supposed to have read throughout the semester – of which I had read none. I hadn’t even opened one. THAT’S ME!

So for the 24 hours before the exam, I read as much as was humanely possible – or at least as much as was Chrisely possible. In a panic fury, I tried to cram as much modern political theory into my weary head. I poured over Spark Notes, skimmed over the texts, and tried my best to read my notes from class – with little luck. I use to think it was sooooooooo funny that instead of taking notes in that class, I would do Su DoKu. Hilarious right? Well fucking joke was on me. My notes were as useless as male nipples. And that’s why my notes ended up in the toilet. Literally. I flushed them in a fit of rage.

So, at 8:20, I made my way to the shuttle, 100% certain I was going to fail. Instead of studying, at that point I thought it wiser to practice what I was going to tell my parents. Perhaps blame the test, or the teacher, or my t.a., or Satan, or Democrats, or Sinead O’Connor (fucking bald headed bitch). This is how bad it was – when I was crossing the street, I genuinely contemplated throwing myself in front of an oncoming vehicle. I can’t take the test if I’m under a Pathfinder.

As I approached Minor Hall, I stepped on a squirrel. I’m not even kidding. I stepped on a live squirrel. What kind of omen is that? He ran in front of me, and stopped just long enough to end up beneath my foot. I guess he was on his way to an exam too. I stepped on the edge of his tail, and he jumped up and ran away. I didn’t hear if he screamed or not. I was screaming too loudly to hear any noise.

Now, I’m guessing squirrel crushing is a good omen, because when I was handed the exam, I actually recognized the first quote. It was amazing. And as I read on, I knew more and more. The things I had scrambled to shove into my brain as I was running out the door actually stuck. I was all over that exam. I actually said “yessssssssssss” in that hushed way that’s quiet and under your breath, but just loud enough for everyone to hear you and rightly mock you.

End of the story – I did well on the final and ended up with a B in the class. Truly a miracle. It sucked that my last final had to be the hardest final I’ve had to date. It sucked that it has to have the most riding on it, but I did the damn thing, and I did it pretty damn well if I do say so myself. So fuck you Kant. Fuck you Marx. Fuck you Hegal, Hume, and Mill. If I never have to read your shit again it would be too soon.

AN EXAMPLE OF ME BEING AN ASSHOLE

We’ve all had those moments in life that you just wish never happened. I’m not just talking about embarrassing shit – not the stuff you’ll be able to laugh off in a week with friends. No unzipped flies. No slips on the stairs of Cabell. No, I’m talking about the stuff that will wake you in bed from a peaceful sleep and cause you to shiver. I’m talking about the time in middle school you threw up on the most popular girl in school and made her cry. I’m talking about the time you mistakenly thought it would be funny to freak-dance your grandmother at kitchen table. That’s the shit I’m talking about. (And coincidentally, I’ve done both. And it was not funny)

Well today I had one of those moments. Honestly, it pains me to relive it long enough to write this blog entry, but I thought it would be best to just get it out of the open.


So let me first set the scene for you. Today I had a final in this bullshit class I’m taking – Soc of Death and Dying. Now, surprisingly for a joke of a class, this final was pretty damn intense, and I knew that coming into it. I wasn’t going to worry about it though. I could give two shits about this class, so the game plan was to intentionally fail in flames of failing glory – just because I could. However, that UVA nerd from within kicked in last night, and I decided to pull an all-nighter to cram in a semesters’ worth of reading.


Sad to say, I’m not the young and spry kid I once was. This was the most difficult all-nighter that I’ve endured to date. It was a painful, painful struggle, but I made it – just barely though. I was a mental wreck by 8:30 when I left to take the exam. My hands were shaking from all the caffeine I had downed. My legs were trembling from the lack of sleep. I tried to speak to my roommate on the way out, but words didn’t come out - just a mixture of consonants and spittle.


I remembered on the bus ride over that I needed a bluebook, so on my way I ran into the bookstore to grab one. I got one and hauled ass to my exam – as hauled as this ass will go anyway. However, the detour ate up too much time, and I was late.


So I get to the class about five minutes late. In a sleep-crazed delirium, I rushed into the classroom. Now, this is where things get blurry. Don’t ask me to justify my actions, because I can’t. I honestly can’t. It was as if I left my body and some other socially retarded entity took control.


So here’s what went down.


The room is packed. The professor is standing at the front of the room doing the usual drill. “Write your TA’s name under section” he’s saying. People are scribbling away. I walk around, when I see on someone’s desk what looks to be an exam.


“Maybe they’ve already handed out the exam” I think to myself.


So I walk to the front of the room – the very front, and stop about ten feet away from the Professor. And there I stand. He’s still talking about names and dates etc., when he notices me standing there, staring at him.


While in mid-sentence, I interrupt him. “Have you passed out the exam?” I ask. He stops. Everything stops. People stop scribbling. No whispering. No rustling. It’s silent. They’re all looking at me. The TA’s are looking at me. The professor is looking at me – his mouth agape.


Moments pass in silence.


“What?!” he says. It wasn’t exactly a “what the fuck did you just say to me” kind of what, but it wasn’t a “pardon me sir, but I was unable to hear what you just said” what either.


“Did you…” – up until this point I was still in my daze, but this is about the moment when I realized what I was doing. It was too late though. It was too late to turn away. “…pass…out the…exam?”


People are laughing at me. The professor is still staring at me with disbelief. “…No” He finally responds.


I quickly turned away, horrified at what I had just done. I heard the professor make a sarcastic-filled nose snort (you know just what I’m talking about! I HATE THOSE), and more people laughed. I kept my head up though, trying not to wear my embarrassment on my face. Although, thinking about it now, that probably only made the situation worse. People probably thought to themselves “look at that tool! He’s an idiot and he doesn’t even know it.”


The worst part was there weren’t any seats, so I had to walk around with everyone still looking at me. I finally found a seat in the back next to some douchey looking frat boys. I quickly buried myself deep into the seat, and took off my sweater with the hopes that people wouldn’t recognize me without it.


They finally DID pass out the exam, and the TA handed me like 20, probably to add insult to injury. I took my exam, but all I could think about the entire time was about what an asshole I had made of myself. I looked to see if people were staring at me and saying to their friends “Look! There’s the asshole who asked if they had passed out exams already! What an asshole!” I tried to devise a plan that would allow me to turn in my exam without going back to the front of the room. "Perhaps I could make it into a paper airplane and see if could land it into the box" I thought to myself – doubtful considering I throw like a girl.


When I finished, having failed to devise a decent plan, I shuttled quickly to the front of the room and dropped off my bluebook. I left the room, never having to face those people again, thankfully. And yet, they’ll always be with me. They’re leering faces and snarky laughs will probably haunt me till the day I die.


Or at least the end of the week.

EVALUATION TIME

The end of the semester is upon us, and you know what that means – EVAL TIME! Professor Evaluations are seriously one of my favorite things in the entire world – up there with masturbating and Angela Lansbury. I take them VERY seriously. From the first day of class on, I begin taking notes in the back of my notebooks – extremely extensive notes. Every late arrival, every inane comment, every poorly worded test question, every unfunny joke, mispronounced word, ugly sweater, cough without covering mouth, funny odor, EVERYTHING goes in the notes.

Over the entire year, I’ll spend 50% of class time formulating the precise zinger I’m going to end my eval on (the other 50% is a combination of doing Su Doku and thinking if I were to create an Amusement park what it would look like). At the end of the year, when I’m handed that eval, I think to myself “thumbs up, or thumbs down?” I’ll look over my notes, and barring any major offensives, I usually will let them off easy. But if they’ve pissed me off…well…you better WATCH IT.

When a teacher has wronged me, I write my evals with one goal – make them cry. No shooting to wound here. In two to three lines, I want tears strolling down their face.

I’ve saved some of my best works, and I thought I would share them here with you. Some of them are a little harsh, so please be warned. If you’re the sensitive type…or one of my professors, you might want to look away. To the rest of you, please, enjoy.


A.B.-
I find the irony of a media studies professor that can’t work a VCR almost as amusing as her sweaters.

J.D.-Did you know that there are 358.5 tiles on the ceiling in your classroom? I did!

T.D.-
I was genuinely surprised that a TA that struggles with the basics of English as much as he does - was able to pick up on how truly crappy my papers were. Well done.

L.B.-
You’re a little man.

C.H.-
The problem with this eval is that it has only given me one page to write on.

C.B.- 
You think just because you have a PhD and a fun British accent that your shit don’t stink?

C.D.-
I calculated the ratio of questions asked to questions answered during his discussion group. For every 10 questions asked, Craig answered four. The other six were generally a combination of “I’ll turn that one over to the class” or “I don’t think you need to know that,” or my personal favorite, “scholars are unclear on that. Next question?”

S.M.-
Stephen Macko, you rock my world. I would bear your children if that were even physically possible.

H.E.-
I say this is all of my evals, but this time I think I actually mean it. She was the worst TA I’ve ever had.

J.P.-
Please buy another shirt.

J.LaP. -

I don't think I've witnessed a teacher yell at a student in the middle of class since elementary school. Thank you for that.

So okay, some of them were a little harsh. I mean, I may be callous, but I am definitely a just man. A fair man. Yes, some of these may had been made mean spiritedly, but you’ll just have to trust me that they got what they were owed. So spare them your pity.

[at the advice of one of my overly cautious friends, i took the professors names down and replaced them with their initials. I figured it would probably be best to at least wait AFTER I got my grades to start publicly mocking them]

NEWS FLASH - BETA STILL ALIVE

As many of you know, I recently acquired a beta fish, who I’ve named Hammer. Given my long sordid history of fish killing (really more like fish genocide, considering I literally wiped out Charlottesville’s entire population of puffer fish); I thought I would give you a Hammer Update.

This Week’s Hammer Update:

Hammer is doing fine and well. No recent suicide attempts. His bubble nest is quite large at the moment, although his water levels are a little low and brackish. The feces at the bottom of his tank was recently cleaned, however this has been some slight accumulation since. Judging by the way he looks at me when I masturbate, I’m guessing he’s one of those gay beta fish, but that’s cool.

At this moment he is taking a shit.

Stay tuned for more Hammer Updates.

CROAKED

The following is a paper I recently submitted for my Death and Dying class. The topic was "write about a time when you came face to face with death." This is what i wrote:
 

As a child, my parents did a pretty good job sheltering me from the concept of death. In my house, great grandma didn’t “die”—she “went to Heaven.” My pet cat wasn’t “dead”—he “ran away to live with little boys who went to bed on time.” Growing up, I never went to a wake – never went to a funeral. Death just wasn’t something we talked about. I wasn’t a stupid kid, not especially stupid anyway. I knew of death, but it wasn’t until my 7th grade biology class that I was forced to stare it face to froggy face.

I remember walking into class that morning with a mixture of apprehension and morbid excitement riding in my belly. We had been preparing for it for weeks, and here it was – the day when boys become men and girls become, well, squeamish girls. It was frog dissection day, and frankly, I was stoked.

The smell of formaldehyde stung my nostrils as I sat down in my chair. On top of the teacher’s desk was what from a distance looked to be a pickle jar, and in many ways I guess you could say it was. The bell rang, and my teacher rushed in like a small child on Christmas. I had never seen her so excited. She walked over to the pickle jar, popped the lid, and said, “Come get ’em while they’re hot!” No one laughed.

We all picked up the silver trays in front of us, and in cafeteria fashion, we each waited in line for our helping of frog. As I got up to the table, my teacher looked at me with devilish excitement.

“Bon appétit,” she said.
“Gross,” I said.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at it as I walked back to my table. Afraid making eye contact would bring it back to life, I decided to wait until I was with my lab partner to glance down – that way there would at least be two of us to subdue the potential zombie frog.

I put it down in front of my partner, and she recoiled in horror. “That’s all you!” she said. Apparently she didn’t share my teacher’s enthusiasm.

So it was just me and froggy. Mano y frogo. I gathered up the courage to look at it…at her. She laid on my cold tray in a seemingly unfroglike position – flat on her back and legs spread out. Her arms were up in the air with her fingers wide apart, as if she had died in the middle of showing everyone her jazz hands. Her belly lay motionless. It was easy to imagine life once breathing through her, moving the now still flesh slowly up and down. I was mesmerized.

For the first time I looked at the face of death: this frog had once been alive. She had little frog friends and did little frog things. She played and ate and croaked. She had parents, and siblings, and maybe even children. But now she was dead, lying in my tray with her cold dead eyes staring at the people sitting in front of me. The smell of formaldehyde brought tears to my eyes.

My teacher was now floating around the class room. “You need to pin the limbs down in your tray. This will keep them from jumping around while you’re cuttin’ into ’em.” Again, no one laughed.

My frog was stiff as a board and hard as a rock. I picked up one of the long pins sitting next to my tray, and timidly inserted it into her left jazz hand – being extra careful to touch as less frog as possible. I took another, and tried to pin down her right. As the pin pierced her right hand, her left popped up, just like a seesaw. I secured her right, and then pushed down her left again. Now the right came unpinned. My partner laughed at me. Pushing down the right, the left came back up. This went on, back and forth, for quite some time. I felt like I was middle of a Three Stooges bit. My partner laughed. “It’s like watching a clown trying to figure out a fitted-bed sheet.”

My teacher walked by and saw the difficultly I was having. “Oh Pumpkin,” she said as she snatched up my frog with her bare hand, “You have to put some muscle into it.” And with that, she snapped every bone of my frog’s body in two. It sounded like kindling breaking. She tossed it back onto my tray and easily placed the pins into her fragmented body.

I looked the frog, and then at my teacher, with horror. “You…you…you broke her!” I said.

“It’s called rigor mortis, Pumpkin. The same thing will happen to you when you die.”

The same thing will happen to me when I die? I continued along with the dissection, but these words stuck with me.

The same thing will happen to me when I die?

After I opened up the body cavity, we discovered our frog was in fact, a she, and filled to the brim with eggs. I began to scrape them out, as instructed. Potential-frog-babies-that-would-never-be piled up in my tray. My partner screamed as one little potential-frog-baby squirted into her eye. I hardly noticed though.

The same thing will happen to me when I die?

The kids in front of me were making their hollowed out frog dance and sing. “Look everyone, it’s the WB frog! Hello my baby, hello my honey…”

But I wasn’t paying attention. Again, I thought, the same thing will happen to me when I die? Here, before me, was this little frog – just a regular frog mind you, not a special frog. She probably didn’t do anything too exciting with her life. She probably spent most of her time hopping from lily pad to lily pad, ate a fly or two. She was just a lame-o frog, and now she was dead. She was dead/gone/not coming back, and the same thing is going to happen to me. ME! Me, who was infinitely cooler than this stupid frog. Me who had learned how to read and write, who knew every capital of every state, who could stand on my hands in the pool, and knew exactly where to punch my brother to make him throw up. ME! I was going to end up just as dead, just as cold, and just as stiff and smelly as this frog.

It was a powerful realization. Never before this had I given much thought to death. It was at this moment I realized that death was not only inevitable, but natural. I was put on this earth with only one requirement of me – to die. It was a powerful moment, and frankly, it sucked. And here’s to the frog that brought it to me.

At least she’s dead.

GENE SHALIT & ME

I’ve been brainstorming ideas for a sitcom to take to the networks. I’ve gone through a lot of rough drafts, but I think I finally have a concept that’s going to be big baby. BIG! Let me run it by you and tell me what you think.

I call it…Gene Shalit and Me! You haven’t seen a comic mismatching this wacky since Oscar and Felix!

See, it’s all about how I get stuck living with Today Show film critic Gene Shalit, and the zany misadventures that ensue. It will be filled with one-liners like

Gene Shalit- “Chris, thanks for the chicken marsala, but honestly, I haven’t seen anything this dry since the 1998 comedy ‘The Big Hit,’ staring Mark Walhberg and Christina Applegate.”

Cue trombone – WAHhHhHhHh wahhhhhHhHhH

…or…

Gene Shalit- “Chris, you keep this kitchen as clean as the language in ‘Casino,’ starring Robert De Niro and Sharon Stone. I give you’re cleaning rating R, for excessive dirty dishes and offensive odors.”

Cue trombone – WAHhHhHhHh wahhhhhHhHhH
Oh Gene! Think of the endless possibilities! I really think I’m on to something here. What do you think?

PEOPLE I DON'T LIKE - SADimPStACi4ML.

Oh, hello friend. I didn’t see you come in. Well, since you’re here, I would like to introduce you to a new segment in my blog. I call it PEOPLE I DON’T LIKE. And I think that pretty much says it all. So without further ado,

This week’s PEOPLE I DON’T LIKE:Scruffy Asian Dude in my Plap Seminar that Always Comes in 40 Minutes Late
(or SADimPStACi4ML for short).
So, SADimPStACi4ML, I have to tell you something. It’s a little secret. I hate you. I’ve hated you since the first day of class. And fuck, you were on time that day.

Why do I hate you, you may be wondering. I’ll tell you why. It’s not just because you’re scruffy. It’s not just because you’re always at least 40 minutes late to class every week. I’ll admit – those don’t help. But the REAL reason…the real reason that I hate you…is the fact that you’re an arrogant S.O.B who never shuts his mouth (despite being scruffy, and always at least 40 minutes late to class).

Why is it that every time you raise your hand to talk in class you have to mention a combination of the follow?

1- How many AP classes you took in high school. That was like 5 years ago dude. Get over yourself. Isn’t there a statute of limitation for these sorts of things?
2- How you’re going to a top law school next year. Who the hell announces that to a class…just like that? At least tell me WHICH top law school you’re going to so I know which basketball team to root against from now until the end of eternity.
3- How stupid the American public is…at least compared to you. I GET IT ALREADY! People are stupid, at least compared to you. Stop saying it. But you know something. As stupid as they are, at least they’re not scruffy or at least 40 minutes late everywhere they go.

And honestly, SADimPStACi4ML, I don’t want to harp on this 40 minutes late to every class thing, but I mean seriously. What the hell is that about? What the hell are you doing before class that’s making you at least 40 minutes late to every class? You’re sure as hell not spending that time SHAVING. I mean, granted, it is a 2.5 hour seminar, but 40 minutes consistently every week? That’s ridiculous. And that one week you showed up 2 hours and 15 minutes late? WHAT THE FUCK!? Why even bother. You show up hours late, with your enormous bobble head…and that one eye that is clearly bigger than the other, and you sit down, usually next to me…pull out your fucking laptop, and raise your hand and repeat everything that everyone just said (except the comment about how many AP classes you took in high school. That’s all you).

What really irks the shit out of me is that no matter how late you are, you always roll up with a little Starbucks bag and a cup of coffee. Please PLEASE PLEASE don’t tell me that you’re running 40 minutes late, but decide that you have time to swing into Starbucks and grab a nice warm latte and a croissant. Choke me with a fucking spoon. You got to be fucking kidding me. Starbucks? 40 minutes late? I’m lost for words. LOST.

You know what SADimPStACi4ML. That’s all I got. You suck at life, and you probably always will. But if it’s any consolation…you got to be my very first….

PEOPLE I DON’T LIKE.

TWINNER

This weekend I made a startling realization.

My twin brother Matt came down for the weekend – just for shits and giggles basically. Usually when he visits, he stops in for lunch and peaces out before night fall, but this time he spent the night. We had a few beers and then went out to some bars on the Corner. And good times were had by all.

My realization came later in the night. We’re at Orbitz, and I turn my back on Matt for about 3 minutes. I look back, and he’s no where to be found. When I find him, he’s standing at the bar with a couple dudes in tuxedos, and they’re all buying him rounds of tequila shots. It’s at this point that I realized – my twin brother is much cooler than myself.

It’s always been something I’ve suspected in the back of my mind. In high school, we did our own thing. He was big on the football team. I played the flugle horn in the marching band. He would go out and get drunk. I would stay in and play the Sims. My mom worried that he was doing drugs. She worried that I was a “chronic masturbator” The list could go on…but I’m sure you get the point.

It’s not that I don’t think that I’m cool. I’m cool! Right? I mean, I have a cell phone, and at parties I make sure to call people from it so everyone knows I have friends elsewhere. If that’s not cool, I don’t know what is.

But the fact of the matter is, my brother is cooler than me. Sure he might have an occasional girl slam a bathroom door in his face, but at the end of the night, I have to give him props. He is one friendly dude, and I am not.

WELCOME TO MY BLOG

it's no secret that i dislike blogs. perhaps you were unaware of my dislike, in which case i say to you; i dislike blogs. i feel like there are two kinds of bloggers.one- overly zealous youngster who mistakenly thinks i’m interested in how they think the world should be run. well I’m not.

two- 40 year old crusty women who mistakenly thinks I’m interested in what their child said in the car ride to piano practice yesterday. depends on what your child is wearing...but most likely not.

So why would I venture into the same blogging world of which I’m such a bitter critic of? The answer- a rich combination of boredom…

Okay just boredom.

With that out of the way, welcome to my blog. My first entry shall be what I think all blogs should be; a list of things I don’t like. Please enjoy.

1- animals dressed like people.
2- cauliflower.
3- the pussy cat dolls.
4- “big dog” shirts.
5- pants
6- the concept of brunch.
7- malta
8- honey glazed ham.
9- hippies.
10- that show “the war at home.”
11- the honor code…honor more generally
12- babies.
13- hairy toes.
14- midgets.
15- media studies.
16- people who speak too loudly on the bus.
17- most of my exes.
18- blogs.
19- being awake.
20- teddy roosevelt. fat fuck.
21- the name “sloane.”
22- enwr 105
23- enwr 106
24- having been placed in enwr 105 and 106.
25- zits on my lip.
26- the oboe.
27- lesbians.
28- constipation
29- howler monkeys.
30- the moment when you think another Law & Order is going to come on TNT, but instead they play an episode of Charmed.
31- eraser peelings.
32- the rainforest.
33- movies with sandra bullock.
34- pogo sticks.
35- stories that begin with “this one time i got so wasted…”
36- tuesday.
37- people who say “cool beans.”
38- william and mary.
39- the talking paper clip that pops up every time I open up Microsoft word.
40- the sterling shuttle, and the crazy woman that drives it.
41- emails sent by todd rosenbaum.
42- jingle bells.
43- cher.
44- the french.
45- books about time travel.

46- flag day.

47- weddings.

48- ending on anything other than a multiple of 5.