im_an_oxymoron's Xanga

I'm Only a Mets Fan By Default

Sun, 07 Oct 2007 05:09:11 GMT

I had an editor for the Temple News read this site and offer me a column of my own. I've been working for school newspapers since I was in elementary school...writing semi-coherently is my only marketable skill, other than tongue tricks...so something like this is one of the few things that holds the ability to make me downright giddy. Yet still, the prissy girl side of my brain (normally reserved for comparing overpriced perfumes and talking behind people's backs) came bursting out, leaving my thought process reduced to "You're going to be the next Carrie Bradshaw!!!" Ugh. I immediately slapped this initial reaction away, instead choosing to pick Joel Stein as the next victim of my vicarious pipe dream.

It wouldn't work out anyway. I'm totally a Miranda.

Being the misanthrope and subway troll that I am, my assignment of, "making witty observations about people on the train" wasn't terribly difficult. However, what I failed to realize was that as a young, white female, I only have slightly more right than my grandmother in typing a single line of ebonics into the article. Although I make fun of every group of people equally and undeservedly, my column was taken away based on the grounds that it may be misconstrued as "offensive towards the community." I had a hard time defending myself against racist allegations, but managed to refrain from overexplaining the mixed demographics of my hometown, my desire for an afro, and how the love of my life from sixth to seventh grade was a beautiful black kid named Pierre. I just told the editor that although I understand, "chances" have to be taken at some point in "journalism." However, I'm still going to attempt to write for them, sans column.

I also got robbed a couple weeks ago and spent a Friday night at the police station, waiting with a man who referred to himself only as "Mr. J's friend." He told me about his wife's lingerie collection, what it was like to teach in an inner city school, and confessed his man-crush for, "that funny motherfucker, Chris Tucker."
So look out for my face on a fake ID near you!

Also, the hot water has mysteriously been turned off for the past couple of days. As I wait for water to boil so I can give myself a geriatric sponge bath, I decided to take five minutes out of my day to passive-aggressively let my roommate know that I refuse to take out the trash again.

Getting a bigger garbage can is obviously not an option.

I Have A Fully Functioning Computer Once Again

Thu, 06 Sep 2007 02:02:35 GMT

Dear Fellow Motorists of 95 South,
Your cringing faces said everything. I just realized I was one of those people. You know, the ones who decide to eat their greasy McMeals on the ride home, because they JUST CAN'T WAIT to sit down at a table with a fork in hand and their dignity intact. I'm so sorry.

Dear New Digs,
I love you. I don't care if about the mice running around in the ceiling or the thermostat's inability to go above 59 degrees or the mismatching floor tiles. You're perfect.

Dear Chivalry,
You only exist when automatic door openers for the handicapped are present. Thank you to all the kind gentleman, who go miles out of their way and make the grueling effort to push it.

Dear Favorite Pants,
You're getting ridiculous. I'm holding out as long as I can so I don't have to go through those arduous, depressing dressing room sessions whose only purpose is to enlighten me about my awkward proportions. But, really...the well-placed tear right under my crotch has grown to a noticeable size. I could birth a child without taking my pants off. Maybe not a child, but a four month old fetus would totally fit through.

Dear Shia Labeouf,
Let's take a moment to remember where you came from before you became attractive to the masses. You played the mascot on Freaks and Geeks. A giant viking mascot. I mean, this is still more than I will probably amount to in my life, but let's not get to cocky.

Dear Michael Shea,
I heard you got a motorcycle (which I hate). With a sidecar (WHICH I LOVE). Let's make this a reality:

Love,
J. Devine

P.S. I doubt I can get back into the hang of this.

During Times of Heightened Despondence, I Find Myself Making Slightly Irrational Purchases

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 05:30:10 GMT

For starters, I'm worried about my browsing history on Amazon.com. I'm usually exceedingly cheap and buy nothing for myself, but I know the next time I'm sad I'll probably buy one of the objects pictured below. I feel like throwing up at the thought of spending $250 on a set of DVDs.

I've already bought a complete kitchen set consisting of a wrought iron table with two chairs and bench upholstered in yellow vinyl. Considering the 9' x 12' dining space I occupy while whipping up gourmet meals of beefaroni, this may not have been the most practical item to get. Justifying this expense to people with, "It is me in furniture form" only makes me sound crazier. Personification doesn't make you too many friends.

I just spent the past two hours attempting to find the best deal on plane tickets to Kentucky. All I wanted to do was to eat comfort food in complete solitude. For some reason, my thought process chooses to zero in on "The only way to get a bowl filled with calories and delicious, delicious gravy is to travel to Kentucky. Lexington, specifically." Luckily, the crippling effect hotel sheets has on me spared my credit card the $150. I have no clue why my brain registers the most inconvenient solution rather than "Go to KFC."

Unfortunately, the most recent thing I bought had no germ barricades to discourage it from being left alone. I leapt into pretention with my latest purchase: a Macbook. My current computer's sound has barely worked since I bought it, and the only thing I wanted to do upon getting home from work was listen to Positive K's "I Got a Man." I have simple needs. Realizing I couldn't do this, I decided to ignore my two year warranty and just start over. Genius!

Oh, and I got a five foot inflatable orange slice from my job. I'm not quite sure what to do with it other than be less hot than Gwen Stefani.

Even though it may dispel the common misconception that I'm Jewish, I really don't have enough money left to be buying unnecessary things.

Okay, so Fruit Slice Island was totally called for.

In the Summertime, La Da Da Da Da...

Wed, 18 Jul 2007 03:44:09 GMT

Should I put that in quotes? I never knew the words to that song, other than half of that first line. You know the one. It's always on those awful classic rock stations. "They're oldies, but goldies!" Now really, you people could have spent a bit more time thinking about that catchphrase. For the sake of Mungo Jerry's "Summertime," if nothing else.

Things I've done thus far:

-Explained what a hymen was to a 14 year old boy.

-Was outcast from every group of people I associate with for not understanding the appeal of Harry Potter.

-Cleaned out part of my car. Findings included: NWA cassette tape, the Pocahontas Soundtrack, rotting oranges, a full tea set, and two chia pets...one of which had sprouted long ago.

-Saw Hall & Oates for free. AWESOME. (Er, my kind of awesome...) Even better? Seeing the cops in charge of the show wearing clear vinyl ponchos. Riding Segway Scooters. Dancing on said scooters.

-Looked in my text messaging outbox to find things like the following: "Working overtime on a possible poop explosion. It's 5 a.m. and things are grand." Ugh. I'm so tired I don't even try anymore. Don't ever be my friend, because, at this rate, I'll probably be reaching into my "diarrhea joke" bag within days of meeting you.

A few noble goals:

-Get over fears of spider veins, sharks, mayonnaise.

-Stop spelling ~~masterbating~~ ~~masterbaiting~~ masturbating incorrectly.

-Cash in that winning $1 scratch-off lottery ticket.

-Stop mourning the untimely death of Charles Nelson Reilly.

-Learn the words to "It's the End of the World as We Know It." Shouting the "Leonard Bernstein!" part does not count as knowing the whole song.

-Learn words in sign language other than "turtle," "king," and "lesbian."

-Form a mutiny at my place of work with my manager (appropriately named Pound, as shown below). This may or may not include blinding people with muriatic acid, stealing the overpriced Nerf Guns we sell, and high fives/fist pounds to cement the bond between overqualified yet underpaid workers such as ourselves:

With a boss known as Little Hitler, streams of lonely male customers making sexual innuendoes, and a paycheck so low I don't even get taxes back, what's not to love?

I'm not meant for this weather.

Disregarding Carrot Top

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 04:06:46 GMT

I just finished spending an unnecessary amount of time trying to find pictures of Rosario Dawson's breasts. A debate arose among friends concerning matters of silicone, and I am a total tit crusader if I feel there are wrongful accusations being thrown around.

There are several matters upon which I will not bend:

I know good breasts when I see them (Sidenote: hello to the various family members reading this. I'm still not that lesbian daughter/cousin/niece you all seem to think I have so much potential to become. Stay tuned for next week's entry, though! Cliffhanger!)
Knock-off food brands are superior to the originals. (Tuxedos>Oreos, Mountain Lion>Mountain Dew, et al.).
Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" gets better every time you listen to it. (Another sidenote: I should probably be working at Hallmark).
And, most importantly...redheads should be ruling the earth.

The pure, unadulterated joy of attending my cousin's graduation/family festivities a week or so ago was only surpassed by finding the love of my life. Most of my time in Jersey was spent either discussing the golden child, or reminding people that a) as much as I appreciate the, "birthday wishes for the big 1-4" in case you don't see me again before then, I should probably let on to the fact that I am currently enrolled in college and closer to my twenties than you may think and b) I am indeed still single...yes, just like the last time you saw me. Feigned surprise is unnecessary. Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's been established that I tend to watch a lot of both Jeopardy! and any documentary I can get my hands on. Whether this coincides with the amount of friends I have is currently an untested theorem, but I think conclusions can be drawn. So, in an attempt to avoid family dramatics, I finally watched "Wordplay," the fast-paced thriller about the national crossword puzzle competition that takes place in Connecticut every year.

And there he was. The youngest winner of the competition.

Red headed, dictionary-wielding, twenty year old Tyler Hinman.

Oh, Baby. You had me at one across. Ugh. Bad jokes happen, people.

I have a long-standing affinity towards redheads. I'm sort of a bastard, so my efforts in befriending them are usually unsuccessful, but I'll continue to try in vain. I'm hypnotized into loving them, really. It's gotten to the point where I find Kathy Griffin hilarious. Not only am I probably the only fan of hers who is not a gay male, but I also think she's quite pretty. Let me repeat...I honestly find Kathy Griffin attractive. I know it's wrong, but that pasty skin skews the thought process. And let's just ignore the fact that not only is Danny Bonaduce a ginger, but so are the rest of his family members. Dear God. Nothing is better than that VH1 show.

Is this dedication a result of low self esteem? I don't think so...I just think they represent an underappreciated recessive gene that deserves attention. Hemophilia is also linked to recessive genes, but, you know...that sexy little trait is slightly less appealing.

Regardless, this March I'm traveling to Brooklyn, the new location of the competition, to see these people (redheaded or not) in all their glory. Is that dedication a result of low self esteem? Quite possibly.

Letters to the Editor

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 04:00:08 GMT

Dear Hand Claps,
Oh my God, you make any song ten times better. I'm sorry it took me so long to notice. "Jack and Diane" may very well be a masterpiece.

Dear Nyquil Stoners,
I didn't think it was possible to find humor in anything more than I do you, but I'm sorry to say you've been replaced. Kids sucking on nitrous balloons is where it's at.

Dear Man at Concert,
Although we were in a crowd, I distinctly felt you grab my vagina at least three times from behind. I’m frigid, man. Your unsolicited molestation isn't upsetting me, nor is it getting you anywhere. Kings of Leon were great though, no?

Dear Various Xanga Users,
There's a reason the people I know in real life don't care enough to comment on here. I'm way better in writing than in person. I'm not sure how I've scammed some of you into thinking otherwise. Plus, I never call people back and have a flat ass...two qualities that don't make for a promising friendship.

Dear Brother,
Thank you for putting with all my video game bullshit while I'm back in Maryland for the summer. The truth of the matter is, although I excel at most things Nintendo 64-related, it really doesn't warrant the massive amounts of victory dances, "gun show" references, and trash talking that occur during any two player game you participate in. And on a completely different note, thank you for posing flamboyantly in 90% of mom’s wedding pictures.

Dear Nose,
The pictures above allow me to see a side profile I have managed to avoid for quite some time. Occasionally, I'll find an acceptable angle facing forward, but the side always reveals the real girth of the thing. If you know my mother, it's not surprising that when asked about my infancy, one of the first things she said was, "I looked at you laying in your crib on your side and just though, 'oh my God, her nose.'" (I suppose that snide honesty is the one trait I inherited from that side). I really thought I'd grow to embrace you, but I'm finding that you continue to be aesthetically problematic. This is not fishing for compliments, it's simply being realistic. However, those pants are exaggerated. Realizing the extra fabric made my legs look double their size, I also found I could fit the majority of my body inside them. It's okay, nose...big is not always bad.

Dear Women's Interest Magazines,
I adore you. Really, it's disgusting, but it started out innocently enough. I began browsing Elle and Jane solely because Joel Stein occasionally wrote for them. It went from casually reading his articles, to subscribing to these publications, getting all those incentives that come with the purchase. So, not only do I now have a drawer full of free samples- tampons, blush, a few makeup bags- but I'm also indulging in the full scope of the articles. It's moved onto Cosmopolitan, Seventeen, Glamour...I can't stop. I especially love the hard-hitting "news reports." To quote directly from an article I just read on the dangers of tanning beds, I learned that, "skin cancer really hurts." Why, thank you for that insightful little quip, Sarah, aged 27, from Boulder, Colorado. And although I'm extremely undomestic, I read all of the home improvement and design stories, just in case I decide to become a woman at some point. In non-scanned format, here is an actual caption found yesterday in the home decor section of one of those magazines:

How progressive...

"Every Moment Frontin' and Maxin'"

Wed, 30 May 2007 05:27:06 GMT

I think from now on, if I can't think of a post title, you'll be seeing some sort of Will Smith lyric or reference. Because, lets face it, the man is a poet and knows how to elegantly describe any situation, whether it be summertime (as it is in this case), misunderstood teens, or that wacky and unpredictable Wild West. He just understands. How do you always take the words right out of my mouth, Jim West?!

Anyway...I'm obviously ready for the glory that is 95 degree weather, as shown through pictures taken in scenic Waldorf, Maryland:

By the way, I am well aware my hair strongly resembles those faux-ponytail hairpieces found at Rite Aid for $2.99. However, it's simply an illusion. That synthetic look is all natural, baby!

All I do is work at the pool store in Scaggsville. We continue to lose employees due to arrest warrants, epileptic fits, and drunkenness, causing me to be one of three people left. I hate that I have undying loyalty to people who don't even respect me, but I'm going on my fourth year there, and still making new mix CDs in an attempt to bribe my way into their hearts. Most of the mixes begin and end with something by either Boston or Billy Idol, just because that's the way it should be, you know? I try to exploit my managerial status to take off days coinciding with interesting Dr. Phil episodes, but I always somehow end up working more than the other people there. By now, I pretty much know the standard summer procedure of a store frequented by mainly white, middle aged customers:

1) See old mares nag their husbands.
2) Develop sympathy crushes on said gentleman (ohhhh Dr. Hoyson).
3) Begin passionate affairs and/or test their pool's chlorine levels.

Unfortunately, working there is going to turn me into a goddamn feminist. If I have to hear one more elderly man compliment me on my fast typing and note how I would make an excellent secretary someday, I'm burning my bras and converting. There's not enough to even really constitute a bra in the first place.

I should probably stop being antisocial this summer. Blockbuster Online makes me a hermit. And for the love of God, whether I decide to see people or not, I need to immediately stop watching things like "Mansquito" on the SciFi network.

Eh, I'll be okay if I'm able to have my own ideal standards of summer met: 65% of my time spent pantsless and going on solitary weekend trips (I miss Philly more than I thought I would) in my car that emits a constant stream of heat from the vents, all done while eating as many McFlurries as possible.

"And that's the Fresh Prince's new definition of summer madness..."

Exploiting My Neuroses

Sat, 12 May 2007 02:57:53 GMT

After completing optional surveys for Temple's Psychology Department, my answers were marked as "of interest," meaning I had to complete further testing in their offices while people watched behind two-way mirrors. I'm no where near mentally unstable, but I don't mind others thinking I am as long as I continue to get paid $20 per test. As much as I hate talking about my feelings, I hate being poor even more. The examiner handed me a sheet of paper with counseling services he provides after glancing over the things I had written. I had to explain to him that I had no intentions of killing myself, but was just looking for readily-dispensed money that wouldn't include selling my eggs or bake sales. It was a humbling experience, to say the least.

I've been distracted recently. I like having friends at a distance, so when I haven't talked to anyone in weeks, and the only concerned e-mail I recieve is from an online gaming company, I feel pretty content:

Just check out the subject line. They sent that out within three days of not seeing me hanging around. And I thought that Alex Trebek would always be the one to be there in times of need.

I'm back in Maryland for the summer. Which basically means lifting boxes half my weight while gossiping about the incestual relationship between my boss and his actual cousin/girlfriend (gotta love minimum wage) and driving around aimlessly at night spotting as many white trash elements to my town as possible. My sixteen year old brother immediately greeted me with, "hey, mudpuppy," some random facts about otters, and a promise for a future round of Pretty Pretty Princess while walking past me to his room. Don't question the nickname- there's no reason behind it. Others include "Michael J. Carter" and "J.G. Wentworth" so it may be getting more normal, if anything.

In a simple, picture-formatted conclusion...being at home, means more of this (namely, my stepsister's leg definition, huge breasts, and "git 'r done" memorabilia-not pictured):

Oh, that bruise on my shin? From a fight I won. The pale legs are a result of blood loss from said fight. Obviously.

On the other hand, less time will be spent with the following people, unfortunately (okay, so one is Andrew W.K. at his show and I am leaving some crucial people out, but you know my camera just started working, and I'm too lazy to steal your Facebook photos). Kels and I will continue to perform our own versions of classic American paintings, but it will be yet another thing put on hold:

I think I might go with shorter posts from now on, probably less funny. I can promise you, though, that they will never contain LOL or anything of that variety. Ever.

I've just got a lot to do, you know? Yeah, finals and term papers are finally over, but Lake Placid is on TV.

Stop Ruining This Generation

Wed, 25 Apr 2007 03:24:09 GMT

You know who you are. Simple steps in figuring out if you are one of these people:

Log onto Facebook
Look at your profile picture
Are you holding a plastic red cup?

This is specifically for those with a profile picture containing a red cup. I don't care if you drink constantly or have a million other pictures like that in your albums, but if it's the initial thing you want to be seen for, then you are an implied part of that title...a member of the Red Cup Generation, that make us all look like the greasy, lazy brother of past decades. Your older brother, the 1980s, is a stockbroker! Yeah, he participates in insider trading and snorts coke on the weekends, but he doesn't get get caught and sports a designer suit while doing so. And your sister, the 1960s is such a peaceful young lady. Okay, so the other one- the 1920s- she's a slut, but regardless...

You suck. Really. The only thing you're good for is your ability to oh-so-cleverly merge insults (douchefairy being a personal favorite) and flawlessly quote "Dazed and Confused." Now, occasionally, I'll mingle with your kind. Because I'm irritated by all groups of people almost equally, it doesn't make sense to be picky about who I talk to. It doesn't bother me to tell you I can't stand you and/or forge a fake friendship for the time being. You don't pick up on the details anyway...as long as I'll friend you on Myspace, you're okay with the interaction. But the lipstick smeared on your mouth from your bathroom encounter with Sigma Kappa's president becomes distracting. I may not read enough obscure books or successfully get through enough math courses to present myself as an intellectual, but that doesn't stop me from thinking you're all idiots, and that doesn't stop you from thinking I'm boring, which is one thing you're actually right about. Thought-provoking conversations seem icky, I know. I've realized my interests lie more within the realm of writing about your antics than they do the art of chugging, and I'm okay with that. I look more forward to impending Online Scrabble competitions with Theresa than I do your parties, where I usually spend my time making caustic mental notes about all of you as I make a hideous attempt to dance. And sometimes I just want to drink mimosas alone, as I write term papers, but that's not socially acceptable. Or so says AA.

It's not even your problem, as there's a common consensus among people my age that you're godly. I don't care if there are exceptions to this group, I lump everyone together. Of course all Jews are cheap and all women are emotional wrecks! I'm judgemental...you know all those years of Catholicism had to go somewhere. (I'm also hypocritical, so you'll probably see a picture of me somewhere with a red cup in my hand). I'm usually able to contain myself when it comes to the "Beer Bongerz 4 Lyfe" crew I spy around campus, but it's hard to ignore when you can spot one of your members from a mile away. The following is a transcript of a real conversation that took place on Sunday afternoon, in Rittenhouse Square, as memorized by Kelsey:

Surveyor: Excuse me, sir...I'm doing a study on the exercise habits of young adults, can I ask you some questions? For example, how often do you go to the gym?

Brah: Oh, I go to the gym all the time. I've got a girlfriend, too.

Surveyor: Oh, okay...well...

Brah: Yeah, I make her blow me before I go to the gym. She doesn't want to, but I make her. Gotta get my testosterone going. I work out a lot.

Brah's Broseph: Yeah, man. You do. You really do.

Brah: Yeah, I do. Man, the girls in this park have smooth backs. Nice, smooth backs. But anyway, my girlfriend doesn't like me going 'cause she's fat, and she doesn't want me to get in shape. She'll do anything to keep me. She lets me pee in her mouth. She just doesn't want me going after other girls, you know?

Surveyor: Okay, well, thank you for your time.

Brah: [phone rings] Speaking of the bitch!

I can confidently say that you people are the only thing I hate more than myself. Now that's a feat.

I'll Never Care About the Eagles, Though...

Mon, 16 Apr 2007 05:48:14 GMT

I left a message on my father's phone the other day casually letting him know that my soul was dying. I rhetorically asked if he knew that one's propensity for happiness was only half-determined by their own efforts? The other half is pure genetics. I explained that, at my very giddiest, I can still only be at a 50% level because he and my mother are both from the New York/New Jersey area...God knows everyone's miserable in Jersey. How dramatic. His reply call consisted of, "Well, that's upsetting. How do you want to proceed from there?"

With caution. And sarcasm, I suppose. It's really the only way to effectively deal with anything.

I know it was smart to leave Maryland, but it's hard for me to convince myself that I made the right decision coming here instead of New York. But with living in Philadelphia, comes familiarity, and I've come to enjoy a few comforting staples:

1. Murals. The more of them you see around you, the more murders that have occurred in the area. It's really just a way to ease tourists into West Philly, and it's genius marketing. Despite what the heinously cheesy/wonderful "Parents Just Don't Understand" may have led us to believe, Will Smith may have been tougher than we thought.

2. The Girl's Bathroom. I've mentioned it before, and the problem has only gotten worse since then. I walked through the door yesterday to find not only the tiles covered in clumps of hair (which I've learned to ignore), but an impressively large puddle of blood on the floor and urine dripping down the wall. I have no clue how these surprises even came about, but I'm looking forward to continued violent, projectile fluids in the coming weeks. It's demolishing my germphobia.

3. The Snide Business Owners. No one asks how you are or tells you to enjoy your day, and those are my kind of people. I appreciate them letting me shop without the forced courtesy. They even go so far as to chastise me for (God forbid) laughing in their cafe, and welcoming me into their metal record store with, "well, this looks natural..." I enjoy the sarcasm and agree with them both- my happiness tends to manifest itself in an overly-hearty, mannish chuckle and the pea coat/houndstooth scarf combination is definitely not appropriate attire to buy Andrew W.K. tickets in.

4. The people I've met. On one side of the spectrum, I had someone bring a home cooked, four course meal and wine back to the dorms because he knew I wasn't going back home for Easter dinner. On the less classy side, I receive daily text messages like this: "I think I just shat my pants while gumming a banana and playing solitaire. Why am I so old?" Either way, these people are perpetually good to me, despite the my apathy.

5. The Great Missed Connections Postings. These people are poets. Scholars, even. "you straigh tup looked like Princes/Lady Di at a Mike Jones concert. Your presence at the bar was breathtaking" is definitely an analogy/pickup line I'll be using in the near future.

6. Professor William Cohen. Last week, this man slammed the door to announce his entrance into class, stood still with his fist in the air, gripping a portable tape player. He dramatically pressed play, and jigged his way down the lecture hall's ramp to irish folk music. In addition to this (and other little antics), he resembles Dustin Hoffman. He is my 60 year old dream man.

7. The Homeless Guy with the Pot Leaf Bandana. He guards the Rite Aid near Diamond Street, always asking for money or a cigarette. Food is an unwarranted gesture, apparently. He shunned the cereal offered to him, because I didn't have a cup of milk to accompany it. Now, that's pride. And while I'm at it, I should really thank him for the regular compliments on what my "nice thighs and pussy" must look like "outta dem jeans"...that's really considerate of him to take the time to contemplate.

8. The Weather. So, this isn't usually a staple- it's the east coast, whose package typically comes with four seasons and a grab bag of natural disasters depending on the month. However, this year, although it's mid-April, I can always depend on a freezing, raining, sleeting day. I'm not going outside unless it's 65-80 degrees, with a mild breeze, and a fucking rainbow, so I hope this is all ending soon. Bed sores aren't terribly attractive when/if it becomes beach weather.

Other than the soul crushing and whatnot, I'm attempting to get things in order.