(May 20, 2008)
I'm beginning to worry that I may never smell or taste anything again. It's been days. I'm eating some cereal because I was craving the texture of something other than Airborne and these terrible oranges I got which do not maintain their segmentation. And this cereal may or may not make me violently ill because my milk was dated yesterday, but I can't smell it. I took a gamble. Let's see what happens.
In other news, Anne has invited me to go with her to a casting call at a BMW dealership (wtf) for The Bachelor. I'm pretty torn because while this does seem like a pretty classy thing to do, I'm not sure I'm the kind of personality the Bachelor producers are looking for. Because I have one.
I've never seen The Bachelor, so maybe there's a big cash prize I'm not aware of -- bigger than the one you got for eating pickled bull balls on Fear Factor -- but last night, watching the Flavor of Love 3 finale, I decided that if I was ever going to really enjoy television, I was going to have to overlook the inexplicable strangeness of the huge number of people who are willing to go to casting calls at car dealerships for the opportunity to compete for a claim of ownership over a complete stranger.
Somewhere, there is a grad student writing about the parallels between Kierkegaard's leap of faith and the willful suspension of disbelief required to participate in/enjoy A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.
Showing posts with label misanthropy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label misanthropy. Show all posts
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Don’t take the beltway!
(August 22, 2007)
I've already decided my days as a Mid-Atlantic state dweller are numbered. Maryland's not dead to me, but it's in the ICU. Today I saw a commercial for a furniture store and their primary selling point was the fact that you don't have to take the beltway to get there (Also: I still do not have a bed). At the end of the commercial, the store's address and phone number flashed on screen, but the phrase "Don't take the beltway!" was featured even more prominently.
Last Friday, as my four-hour trip to Virginia Beach stretched into six hours, I used that time to contemplate my next nomadic move. I realized, then, that moving close to DC seemed like a good idea in May because a) Ryan Claycomb told me to, and b) it's a city that's not New York. I like cities for their absence of trees and neighborly small talk, but I somehow forgot about my overriding distaste for other people. I've decided I'm willing to suffer the boredom of small town living in exchange for relative solitude. For now, there's not a lot I can do about it, but I've decided that as soon as my lease is over, I'm moving to Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, Nevada, Oklahoma, Idaho, or some other state you never meet anyone from. I'm willing to drive 40 minutes to the grocery store and talk to the people in it as long as I don't have to stare at a line of stationary single-car drivers as far as the horizon in the process. I don't want any mass transit, either. I'm not going anywhere with a population dense enough to warrant public transportation. I only want to see pick-up trucks and that one van that takes senior citizens to the mall. I'm drawing the line at hunting my own food, though. And, yes, I know this is probably how Ted Kaczynski started.
Once I actually got to Virginia Beach, I had a pretty good time. I got sick pretty much immediately as a result of constant exposure to proper nutrition and natural light, but I tried not to let that get me too down. One thing did sort of bother me, though, and I know I've written about this before, but still -- how can the catcall continue to exist? Not only has it never worked on anyone, but now there seems to be a new strain of hostile catcall that's somehow even less effective.
The three-block walk back to Steph's house was full of pretty standard sexual harassment (one reason not to go blonde), but one dude got really creative and warned us to "watch out for the attack." That time, I actually did almost stop and ask for clarification. Obviously, yelling at me on the street didn't make me want to sleep with him nearly as much as if he'd revved the engine of a Camaro blasting techno music, but did he have to be all menacing about it? Why not try something like, "Come back to the parking garage, baby" or "I have an ether-soaked rag in my back pocket"?
So, apparently we're doing violent catcalls now, and I'm really excited about this. I'm officially encouraging my female friends to get involved.
"This womb won't fill itself!"
"I want to sue you for child support!"
"I'm gonna fuck you in the ass with conical household objects until you cry like a little bitch!"
I've already decided my days as a Mid-Atlantic state dweller are numbered. Maryland's not dead to me, but it's in the ICU. Today I saw a commercial for a furniture store and their primary selling point was the fact that you don't have to take the beltway to get there (Also: I still do not have a bed). At the end of the commercial, the store's address and phone number flashed on screen, but the phrase "Don't take the beltway!" was featured even more prominently.
Last Friday, as my four-hour trip to Virginia Beach stretched into six hours, I used that time to contemplate my next nomadic move. I realized, then, that moving close to DC seemed like a good idea in May because a) Ryan Claycomb told me to, and b) it's a city that's not New York. I like cities for their absence of trees and neighborly small talk, but I somehow forgot about my overriding distaste for other people. I've decided I'm willing to suffer the boredom of small town living in exchange for relative solitude. For now, there's not a lot I can do about it, but I've decided that as soon as my lease is over, I'm moving to Montana, Wyoming, North Dakota, Nevada, Oklahoma, Idaho, or some other state you never meet anyone from. I'm willing to drive 40 minutes to the grocery store and talk to the people in it as long as I don't have to stare at a line of stationary single-car drivers as far as the horizon in the process. I don't want any mass transit, either. I'm not going anywhere with a population dense enough to warrant public transportation. I only want to see pick-up trucks and that one van that takes senior citizens to the mall. I'm drawing the line at hunting my own food, though. And, yes, I know this is probably how Ted Kaczynski started.
Once I actually got to Virginia Beach, I had a pretty good time. I got sick pretty much immediately as a result of constant exposure to proper nutrition and natural light, but I tried not to let that get me too down. One thing did sort of bother me, though, and I know I've written about this before, but still -- how can the catcall continue to exist? Not only has it never worked on anyone, but now there seems to be a new strain of hostile catcall that's somehow even less effective.
The three-block walk back to Steph's house was full of pretty standard sexual harassment (one reason not to go blonde), but one dude got really creative and warned us to "watch out for the attack." That time, I actually did almost stop and ask for clarification. Obviously, yelling at me on the street didn't make me want to sleep with him nearly as much as if he'd revved the engine of a Camaro blasting techno music, but did he have to be all menacing about it? Why not try something like, "Come back to the parking garage, baby" or "I have an ether-soaked rag in my back pocket"?
So, apparently we're doing violent catcalls now, and I'm really excited about this. I'm officially encouraging my female friends to get involved.
"This womb won't fill itself!"
"I want to sue you for child support!"
"I'm gonna fuck you in the ass with conical household objects until you cry like a little bitch!"
More abuse, please.
(June 21, 2007)
Last week, I went to a Pirates game on what was apparently Ladies' Night, although ladies didn't get free beer, beer in buckets, t-shirts, t-shirts in buckets, or any other special benefit that I'm aware of. The overall lameness of Ladies' Night was only compensated for by the pierogi race. Sauerkraut Saul won. Oh, and so did the Pirates.
I don't really understand the correlation between Pittsburgh, pierogies, and pirates. Maybe pirates love eating delicious, carbtastic foods in Pittsburgh. And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's all for my segue. Now, here's my list of Top 5 Places in Morgantown (and the vicinity) to Get Abused:
5. PNC Park on Ladies' Night -- because ladies get free disappointment.
4. 123 -- because if you're not there every night, you're not a regular. And if you're not a regular, you can go to hell.
3. High Street, any time after 9 p.m., any day during the fall or spring semesters -- because I am a vagina, not a person.
2. Black Bear Burritos -- because the air conditioning may or may not be on, and you may or may not see the entire English department, but the one thing you can bet on for sure is that there are going to be a lot of screaming toddlers running around unchecked while their parents ingest Spring Creek tofu and PBR.
1. The Blue Moose -- because hipsters are total dicks.
Every time I go to the Blue Moose I have to interact with the same hipster -- the one with the hair that looks like a Lego helmet. And she's always a total dick to me. Her latest thing is acting like she can't hear me when I've just politely ordered at a reasonable human volume, and then standing behind the counter with her head cocked to the side giving me a look that conveys her suspicion that I am not only a freakish mute, but also possibly retarded.
Yesterday, I saw her smoking and I thought, Good.
Last week, I went to a Pirates game on what was apparently Ladies' Night, although ladies didn't get free beer, beer in buckets, t-shirts, t-shirts in buckets, or any other special benefit that I'm aware of. The overall lameness of Ladies' Night was only compensated for by the pierogi race. Sauerkraut Saul won. Oh, and so did the Pirates.
I don't really understand the correlation between Pittsburgh, pierogies, and pirates. Maybe pirates love eating delicious, carbtastic foods in Pittsburgh. And there's nothing wrong with that.
That's all for my segue. Now, here's my list of Top 5 Places in Morgantown (and the vicinity) to Get Abused:
5. PNC Park on Ladies' Night -- because ladies get free disappointment.
4. 123 -- because if you're not there every night, you're not a regular. And if you're not a regular, you can go to hell.
3. High Street, any time after 9 p.m., any day during the fall or spring semesters -- because I am a vagina, not a person.
2. Black Bear Burritos -- because the air conditioning may or may not be on, and you may or may not see the entire English department, but the one thing you can bet on for sure is that there are going to be a lot of screaming toddlers running around unchecked while their parents ingest Spring Creek tofu and PBR.
1. The Blue Moose -- because hipsters are total dicks.
Every time I go to the Blue Moose I have to interact with the same hipster -- the one with the hair that looks like a Lego helmet. And she's always a total dick to me. Her latest thing is acting like she can't hear me when I've just politely ordered at a reasonable human volume, and then standing behind the counter with her head cocked to the side giving me a look that conveys her suspicion that I am not only a freakish mute, but also possibly retarded.
Yesterday, I saw her smoking and I thought, Good.
Hogging.
Hey, kids. Gather 'round. Today, I learned about hogging (though, thankfully, not firsthand).
Have you heard of this? Apparently, it's huge. It's when dudes go prowling for obese women, take them home, and humiliate them in various ways. This usually entails the hogee on hands and knees while the hogger makes whatever kinds of noises he thinks a hog makes. But there's a collaborative element to hogging, which is really key. One example, I was told, would be like if a hogger's friend jumped out of a closet with a videocamera in the middle of the hogging.
Hogging is enough of a cultural phenomenon to entail entries in both Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary. There's also an essay by Sarah Fenske called "Big Game Hunters," which was featured in the anthology 'Scoot Over, Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology.' And, in volume 27 of the journal, 'Deviant Behavior,' there's an essay called "'Knocking off a Fat Girl': an Exploration of Hogging, Male Sexuality, and Neutralizations." I'm also told there are MySpace and Facebook groups for hoggers, but I haven't mustered the bravery to check those out yet.
I worried that my previous ignorance of hogging might mean that I'd been hogged myself; but, I was told I don't meet the minimum weight requirement, and besides, hogging never leads to relationships.
If hogging is something everyone (but me) already knows about, I have to wonder why potential hogees aren't just a little more guarded. I'm not condoning hogging or anything, but nothing good has ever happened in a Lane Bryant tube top.
Don't we all know when we're out of our league? I mean, the only ridiculously good looking people I trust are my friends, so in the event that a male model-looking dude ever spoke to me, I'd assume he was either gay (and wanted someone to make fun of high-waisted pants with) or blind (and I sound much, much taller, and blonder -- with bigger boobs.). Logically, I think this question makes sense, although I will concede that it does presuppose a moderate sense of self-worth, a pinch of dignity, and possibly a fear of STDs. Unfortunately, not all hogees seem to possess these traits because, as we all know, fat people are sub-human, and exist solely for everyone else's entertainment. Fat guy in a little coat.
Some hoggers argue that hogees like hogging, because at least they get to have sex. Others, I guess, just feel entitled to ruin lives because they're just that awesome.
But, that's beside the point. The more pressing issues, I think, are:
1. Hoggers need to admit that they like hogging. If they didn't, hogging would be physically impossible. You know what I'm saying.
2. Hoggers are taking potential mates from their oversized brethren. Shouldn't that be against the Bro Code?
3. Hoggers are totally gay for each other, hence the collaborative element. And that's all I have to say about hogging. I leave you with some of my favorite quotations from Fenske's essay (http://www.clevescene.com/2003-10-01/news/big-game-hunters/4):
"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."
"I just talk to them like they're complete disgusting pigs," he says. "You gotta break 'em down with insults. Comment on their fat -- 'You're a dirty little pig.' They call me a dick, an asshole, but after a few beers, they're into it."
"Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"
"You don't want to have a hot bitch blow you off because she can. You want a fat bitch who'll suck your cock. Last call, I like to get my dick sucked rather than play euchre all night."
Have you heard of this? Apparently, it's huge. It's when dudes go prowling for obese women, take them home, and humiliate them in various ways. This usually entails the hogee on hands and knees while the hogger makes whatever kinds of noises he thinks a hog makes. But there's a collaborative element to hogging, which is really key. One example, I was told, would be like if a hogger's friend jumped out of a closet with a videocamera in the middle of the hogging.
Hogging is enough of a cultural phenomenon to entail entries in both Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary. There's also an essay by Sarah Fenske called "Big Game Hunters," which was featured in the anthology 'Scoot Over, Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology.' And, in volume 27 of the journal, 'Deviant Behavior,' there's an essay called "'Knocking off a Fat Girl': an Exploration of Hogging, Male Sexuality, and Neutralizations." I'm also told there are MySpace and Facebook groups for hoggers, but I haven't mustered the bravery to check those out yet.
I worried that my previous ignorance of hogging might mean that I'd been hogged myself; but, I was told I don't meet the minimum weight requirement, and besides, hogging never leads to relationships.
If hogging is something everyone (but me) already knows about, I have to wonder why potential hogees aren't just a little more guarded. I'm not condoning hogging or anything, but nothing good has ever happened in a Lane Bryant tube top.
Don't we all know when we're out of our league? I mean, the only ridiculously good looking people I trust are my friends, so in the event that a male model-looking dude ever spoke to me, I'd assume he was either gay (and wanted someone to make fun of high-waisted pants with) or blind (and I sound much, much taller, and blonder -- with bigger boobs.). Logically, I think this question makes sense, although I will concede that it does presuppose a moderate sense of self-worth, a pinch of dignity, and possibly a fear of STDs. Unfortunately, not all hogees seem to possess these traits because, as we all know, fat people are sub-human, and exist solely for everyone else's entertainment. Fat guy in a little coat.
Some hoggers argue that hogees like hogging, because at least they get to have sex. Others, I guess, just feel entitled to ruin lives because they're just that awesome.
But, that's beside the point. The more pressing issues, I think, are:
1. Hoggers need to admit that they like hogging. If they didn't, hogging would be physically impossible. You know what I'm saying.
2. Hoggers are taking potential mates from their oversized brethren. Shouldn't that be against the Bro Code?
3. Hoggers are totally gay for each other, hence the collaborative element. And that's all I have to say about hogging. I leave you with some of my favorite quotations from Fenske's essay (http://www.clevescene.com/2003-10-01/news/big-game-hunters/4):
"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."
"I just talk to them like they're complete disgusting pigs," he says. "You gotta break 'em down with insults. Comment on their fat -- 'You're a dirty little pig.' They call me a dick, an asshole, but after a few beers, they're into it."
"Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"
"You don't want to have a hot bitch blow you off because she can. You want a fat bitch who'll suck your cock. Last call, I like to get my dick sucked rather than play euchre all night."
Awesomely terrible lines from student papers: the (new and improved) finale.
(April 27, 2007)
"The second section of my research question is how much time do we have? Well, it depends who you talk to. The Christians, Mayans, and many scientists say not long but of course they have been saying that for years."
"Without industry, where would people work? The answer is simple: people would be farming in their backyards, living off the land, and rolling the wheel back. This simply cannot be stood for."
"As the evolutionary progress has continued, humans have faced weakening in their senses in old age. Many children are even vision impaired or hearing impaired. What would happen to these humans had it not been for the use of plastics, a pollutant to the environment, to develop hearing aids?"
"A deaf human in a hunter-gatherer society would become an overwhelming burden to his comrades and would likely die young."
"As stated earlier, the ability for mammals to evolve quickly has been our strongest trait. This statement may start to seem redundant, but I cannot stress the importance of the recognition of the evolutionary process."
"Pollution is a major problem. I admit it."
"The first time the ape stabbed a big ole hornet nest, he learned his lesson: hornets are not a good food source due to the high opportunity cost."
"An albino rabbit in a dense forest is not going to survive very long."
"The second section of my research question is how much time do we have? Well, it depends who you talk to. The Christians, Mayans, and many scientists say not long but of course they have been saying that for years."
"Without industry, where would people work? The answer is simple: people would be farming in their backyards, living off the land, and rolling the wheel back. This simply cannot be stood for."
"As the evolutionary progress has continued, humans have faced weakening in their senses in old age. Many children are even vision impaired or hearing impaired. What would happen to these humans had it not been for the use of plastics, a pollutant to the environment, to develop hearing aids?"
"A deaf human in a hunter-gatherer society would become an overwhelming burden to his comrades and would likely die young."
"As stated earlier, the ability for mammals to evolve quickly has been our strongest trait. This statement may start to seem redundant, but I cannot stress the importance of the recognition of the evolutionary process."
"Pollution is a major problem. I admit it."
"The first time the ape stabbed a big ole hornet nest, he learned his lesson: hornets are not a good food source due to the high opportunity cost."
"An albino rabbit in a dense forest is not going to survive very long."
The stupidest thing I've been a part of (recently).
(April 24, 2007)
Today I invited Ultimate Co-Worker, along with Ultimate Fiancee and Ultimate Friends, to this weekend's Republican Fest. Deb has to work, but Ultimate says he thinks he'll make a convincing Dick Cheney. Aaron says he's coming as Ann Coulter.
So, during my fifteen-minute break at work, I tried to print an Ultimare Flyer for Ultimate Co-Worker. Here's how this is supposed to work:
1. Deposit money to account.
2. Swipe student ID at nearest printer to deduct money from account.
3. Print whatever you want for six cents a page.
Having completed step one some time ago, I went to the nearest printer to complete steps two and three. I should have immediately known something was wrong when I saw a Dude and an Emo kid hunched over the printer at the same time; those two subcultures never mingle -- probably because the Dude wants to punch the Emo kid all the time, and the Emo kid would die.
Nonetheless, Dude and Emo were both staring at the printer, pressing buttons, opening doors, and being all-around take-charge kind of guys, bonding over their shared sense of confusion. They looked a lot like Hansel and Zoolander trying to get the file from the Mac. I watched this for a few seconds before asking, "Do you know what's wrong with the printer?" And then Dude said, "It says it's out of paper..." and then he opened the door where the ink goes. "How do you put paper in there?"
So then I said, while opening the paper drawer, "I think the paper goes in here because this drawer has a picture of a piece of paper on it."
Then, Dude picked up two -- seriously, two -- folded pieces of formally discarded paper beside the printer and put them in the tray. Emo identified one problem: "I bet we'll need more than two pieces of paper." And I picked another: "That's probably going to get caught in the printer."
But Dude proceeded anyway. He hit the print button again, and nothing happened. So -- I swear this is true -- I closed the paper drawer for him. And, of course, the paper immediately got jammed in the printer and I felt vindicated. That was the moment I decided to stick around to the end of the ordeal just to see what would happen.
Dude opened the correct drawer and pulled the crumpled piece of paper out. Emo turned to me, full of despair, and asked, "What do we do now?"
"Get more paper."
"Where?"
"Ask a librarian."
And then Dude and Emo both looked at me like I'd just suggested asking the Godfather for a favor on his daughter's wedding day. I could tell they were both just going to give up because the challenge of asking a librarian for paper to fill an empty printer in the library was completely insurmountable. Dude was like, "Fuck it," and walked away. Emo looked longingly at the printer, hoping that either the paper supply would magically replenish itself, or I would ask one of the librarians for paper myself. That was the moment I realized our shared experience had crossed over from the realm of the entertaining into the realm of the unbelievably stupid.
I left Emo standing at the printer as a Sorostitute approached. She stopped me, and asked, "What's wrong with it?" Assuming she was referring to the printer rather than the Emo staring at it, I told her the printer was out of paper and she gave me the same terrified look as Dude and Emo.
I fled back to work before things could get any stupider. As I relayed the story of my experience to Ultimate Co-Worker, I began to realize its full impact. I had just met three people who were so astonished by the prospect of having to take initiative to do something ridiculously simple for themselves that they were frozen with shock. No wonder some of my students still don't know how to write a thesis statement.
Today I invited Ultimate Co-Worker, along with Ultimate Fiancee and Ultimate Friends, to this weekend's Republican Fest. Deb has to work, but Ultimate says he thinks he'll make a convincing Dick Cheney. Aaron says he's coming as Ann Coulter.
So, during my fifteen-minute break at work, I tried to print an Ultimare Flyer for Ultimate Co-Worker. Here's how this is supposed to work:
1. Deposit money to account.
2. Swipe student ID at nearest printer to deduct money from account.
3. Print whatever you want for six cents a page.
Having completed step one some time ago, I went to the nearest printer to complete steps two and three. I should have immediately known something was wrong when I saw a Dude and an Emo kid hunched over the printer at the same time; those two subcultures never mingle -- probably because the Dude wants to punch the Emo kid all the time, and the Emo kid would die.
Nonetheless, Dude and Emo were both staring at the printer, pressing buttons, opening doors, and being all-around take-charge kind of guys, bonding over their shared sense of confusion. They looked a lot like Hansel and Zoolander trying to get the file from the Mac. I watched this for a few seconds before asking, "Do you know what's wrong with the printer?" And then Dude said, "It says it's out of paper..." and then he opened the door where the ink goes. "How do you put paper in there?"
So then I said, while opening the paper drawer, "I think the paper goes in here because this drawer has a picture of a piece of paper on it."
Then, Dude picked up two -- seriously, two -- folded pieces of formally discarded paper beside the printer and put them in the tray. Emo identified one problem: "I bet we'll need more than two pieces of paper." And I picked another: "That's probably going to get caught in the printer."
But Dude proceeded anyway. He hit the print button again, and nothing happened. So -- I swear this is true -- I closed the paper drawer for him. And, of course, the paper immediately got jammed in the printer and I felt vindicated. That was the moment I decided to stick around to the end of the ordeal just to see what would happen.
Dude opened the correct drawer and pulled the crumpled piece of paper out. Emo turned to me, full of despair, and asked, "What do we do now?"
"Get more paper."
"Where?"
"Ask a librarian."
And then Dude and Emo both looked at me like I'd just suggested asking the Godfather for a favor on his daughter's wedding day. I could tell they were both just going to give up because the challenge of asking a librarian for paper to fill an empty printer in the library was completely insurmountable. Dude was like, "Fuck it," and walked away. Emo looked longingly at the printer, hoping that either the paper supply would magically replenish itself, or I would ask one of the librarians for paper myself. That was the moment I realized our shared experience had crossed over from the realm of the entertaining into the realm of the unbelievably stupid.
I left Emo standing at the printer as a Sorostitute approached. She stopped me, and asked, "What's wrong with it?" Assuming she was referring to the printer rather than the Emo staring at it, I told her the printer was out of paper and she gave me the same terrified look as Dude and Emo.
I fled back to work before things could get any stupider. As I relayed the story of my experience to Ultimate Co-Worker, I began to realize its full impact. I had just met three people who were so astonished by the prospect of having to take initiative to do something ridiculously simple for themselves that they were frozen with shock. No wonder some of my students still don't know how to write a thesis statement.
Misanthropy FAIL.
(October 26, 2006)
I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.
A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.
Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.
But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.
I've found that one serious benefit of thinking just about everyone is an asshole is that sometimes I get overwhelmed by random acts of kindness that aren't really that big of a deal.
A week ago, one of my classmates from the post-war British drama seminar and I realized we were at the same concert five years ago. Ok, maybe that's not that weird; U2 has a lot of fans, I know. They're kind of a big deal. But I think it's weird that we found out, because he's from Virginia and I'm from Ohio and, somehow, we both ended up in Cleveland's Gund Arena -- which is really fun to say, because it sounds like a venereal disease -- rocking out at the same time.
Also, we both had tickets to see them in Boston in 2004, and neither of us ended up going. Eerie.
So, those two discoveries alone were enough to make me forget about the need for universal health care for a minute, and enjoy the humanness of the whole thing in an oh-how-sweet-we're-all-connected state of mind.
But then, Jim shows up to class last night -- with mix CDs. Mix CDs! U2 live, and Beatles b-sides! I mean, come on. That nearly destroyed me. It was one of those completely unselfish acts of thoughtfulness that left me shaking my head in amazement (Cynics, take note: Jim is in his mid-thirties and married, so it really was an unselfish act of thoughtfulness, not a geeky romantic gesture. Not that mix CDs aren't romantic. You know what I mean.). I still haven't fully recovered.
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