Archives for the month of: October, 2013

The most horrible thing just happened to me.

So I’m sitting on my bed during a period of boredom and procrastination, innocently youtubing videos of people falling. I finished watching “Scarlet takes a tumble” for the tenth time and looked to the right column, to see what the site recommended I watch next. Up towards the top was the new Avril Lavigne music video for her duet with her new husband, Chad Kroeger.

If you don’t know who Chad Kroeger is… count your blessings. He’s the main singer of Nickelback, the band that God sent to the music industry to punish us for piracy. The guy who used to look like Jesus but has since shopped of all his hair and bleached the tips. He doesn’t even sing, he just screams. In every one of his songs, he sounds like he’s been on the toilet for an hour and is really, really constipated. And don’t even get me started on the patch of pubes he for some reason REFUSES to shave on his chin. I don’t know whats worse, that or his frosted tips. Someone needs to tell this guy it’s not 1995 anymore.

Look at This Photograph.

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I like to imagine that he proposed 20 different ways and they all sounded the same. Much like his music. Also, I’d just like to point out: FUCK YOU, MAYANS. If you had been right about the world ending we could have avoided this crisis.

I could not be more upset these two are married. Avril is awesome, and should be worshiped by all. I know I’m biased, since she spent many former years as a redhead. But if you don’t have many fond memories of screaming Sk8er Boy in the passenger seat of your mom’s van while wearing a choker and some sort of platform sneaker, you seriously need to revaluate your life. She’s like the female equivalent of Clooney, in that she just keeps improving with age. I honestly couldn’t guess her age… is she 17 or 40? I’ll never know.

Chad Kroeger is gayer than AIDS. I’m sorry, someone had to say it. So why in the hell she decided to let this sad excuse for a man wife her up is just beyond me. Is it because he’s always wearing leather jackets?

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I’m pretty sure it’s because they’re both from Canada. Which is completely redundant because Canada actually sent us Avril Lavigne to apologize for giving us Nickelback. Which reminds me, I can’t wait to see the Goddess they’re going to give us to make up for Bieber.

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Seriously though, Nickelback sucks. Back in 2007, they were performing in Portugal and the crowd wouldn’t stop booing. So Chad Kroeger gets all upset and asks, “Do you guys want us to leave, or do you want us to ROCK?”. As if on cue, a member of he audience threw a rock at his face. I’m moving to Portugal.

Jokes aside on this union, I’m pleased for Canada. It’s finally going to get the royal wedding it deserves.

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If you have ears and/or and eyes, I recommend you don’t watch the Music video. It’s called “Let Me Go”, which is ironic because thats EXACTLY WHAT AVRIL NEEDS TO DO. The song actually doesn’t suck until 1:52, when Kroeger comes in. In the video, Avril is totally kicking ass, being all emo and moody and shit. She’s wearing tons of eyeliner and a super cool gown, playing this old piano in an abandoned mansion and belting it out when all of the sudden he comes out of nowhere and puts his hands on her shoulders. He then acts like a total creep and stands behind her for three minutes, gripping her and singing. I literally cringed when he touched her. I imagine his hands to be very clammy.

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The only thing worse than Chad’s acting was the product placement. Halfway through the video Avril starts sentimentally watching him play the guitar on a tablet and it’s so painful you just want to reach into your screen and flick him out of the shot.

Why am I so upset about this? I’ll tell you why. It’s not just that I’m about to watch one of my favorite childhood musician flush years of her life down the toilet by marrying a guy who has for sure murdered at least one hooker. It’s the fact that, if a girl like Av Lav ends up with a dweeb like Chad Kroeger, there is absolutely zero hope for me. I’ll be lucky if I can end up with one of those guys that sits on the curb outside of 711 smoking cigarillos.

Avril got it right on the first try, when she married one of the Deryck Whibley from Sum 41. Maybe Deryck will get really pissed about the whole thing and give Kroeger a Fat Lip. God help me if Avril and Chad reproduce… at that point I’ll probably just call it a quits and leave earth.

Chavril’s future lovechild:

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Oh, Chad. Why’d you have to go and make things so complicated?

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I immediately regretted my decision to go out last night. Not only did I spend around $60 buying fireballs for anyone within a fifteen foot radius, but I have a killer headache. So that’s why they tell you not to drink after you donate blood. Hangovers really aren’t that terrible… when you don’t have a three hour art class. But I can’t complain about my drawing class; I love that shit. I can, however, complain about the walk to the fine arts building.

If you’ve never been, the Fine Arts building is where the hipsters, GDIs, and myself congregate to do artsy things. Some seriously weird shit goes down in that building. But let me tell you what I love about the people you find in the fine arts building- EVERYTHING.

ImageFirst off, they wear the weirdest shit. Most of Mizzou dresses relatively normal and even pretty uniform. For example, on a given fall day there’s more riding boots in ten square feet than in all of the Kentucky Derby. But not in Fine Arts. There’s this girl named Tiffany (Name not changed to protect identity, I really don’t give a fuck) in my class who wears a  poncho every. single. day. I seriously don’t think I’ve seen her wear the same one twice. And I stare at her a lot, because she has a penis-shaped tattoo on her neck. It’s a great mood booster when I’m grumpy from sitting on a hard stool for three hours and I look over to see a boner right on this chick’s throat.

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Probably my favorite part of the crowd is that since everyone looks so terrible, I get to worry less about whether or not I look cute. Who cares that I didn’t straighten my hair when the girl next to me has an eye patch and dreadlocks.  I can literally wear whatever I want, because just the fact that I’m wearing legitimate fabric is a step up from most of the fuckers working there.

But you don’t realize how weird these people are until they open their mouths. I’m sitting in the studio the other day, just innocently finishing an assignment when this girl starts bitching about her roommates. She’s complaining that they keep the temperature too hot and I’m like, sure, that’s a legitimate complaint. But then she adds, “I’m just worried that the high temperature will make my rats sick or something”. The fuck? There are so many things wrong with that statement. First, I have an issue with anyone who considers a fucking rat a legitimate pet. Second, ratS? Plural? How many of those do you have? She’s probably the daughter of that obese lady on My Strange Addiction who huffs her rats and craves the smell of nacho cheese. After hearing that shit I felt bad for judging her roommates. They’re probably just trying to smoke her out; that’s what I’d do.

Then there’s Harry. Harry is a guy in the class next to me. He is 100% Asian, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t speak English. I only think this because when the teacher calls on him to answer a question, Harry just avoids eye contact, leans back and forth repeatedly, and legitimately groans until the teacher gives up and calls on someone else. Harry has issues.
ImageAnd that’s just the students; the teachers are even weirder. I love my art teacher, but, like most grown men who have ponytails, he’s got a few loose screws. The first time he showed us how to spray our drawings with chemicals to make the charcoal stay, he made a point to tell us that he would prefer if we would not spray the contents of the can into a bag and huff it. Did he really need to tell us that? Apparently so… today as he was passing out sweet tarts, he casually tells us, “When I was in preschool I used to crush sweet tarts up and snort them”. Okay, what? I don’t know if i was even capable of going to the bathroom by myself in preschool, meanwhile this guy was preparing for a life of recreational drug use.

ImageBut this is what’s so great about Fine Arts. Everyone is so delightfully strange, and for some reason, it makes me really happy. Probably because it’s the only place in the world where I’m actually considered normal. All in all, I really don’t think I’d want it to be any other way. I never get tired of watching the hipsters smoke E-cigs in the halls or the anime-obsessed asians gab in Chinese. So if you’re ever bored, curious, or just feeling bad about yourself, I’d recommend a visit to the Fine Arts building. It’s a magical place that will make you feel better about every aspect of your life. Come see me while you’re there, I’ll be the ginger sitting alone in a corner avoiding eye contact and resisting the urge to draw a pair of testicles on Tiffany’s neck.

Hello, nonexistent readers.

I’m currently sitting in bed, procrastinating the process of getting ready for the night. There’s nothing I love more than going to bar and getting uncomfortably hammered with a group of my sisters, but the time spent getting ready can really be torture. I don’t even understand the point; by the end of the night there is a 100% chance that my makeup will resemble that of Amy Winehouse.

ImageI have been advised to not get drunk tonight. Obviously I’m ignoring this advice, but I guess it’s probably important that I warn my sisters to watch me. This is because yesterday, I gave a pint of blood for the Homecoming blood drive.THAT was an experience. If you’ve never given blood, this is how it works:

You go to a vacant gym and sit in line for about four days. They give you this binder and you have to pretend to read all this shit about how if you do crack or have AIDs you can’t donate. They make a huge deal about it too, and I’m just like, If you have AIDS, I’m pretty sure you’ve got much more shit to deal with than not being able to donate blood. Then, when they finally call your time, you go sit in this tiny booth made out of huge pieces of cardboard. At one point I sneezed and one of the damn things actually fell over.

At this point a lady in a lab coat makes sure you qualify. Last year I didn’t because I had gone to the Dominican Republic seven months earlier. They were like, “Yeah, sorry, you might have Malaria”. Are you fucking kidding me? I’m pretty sure I don’t have malaria, I don’t live in a fucking marsh. I get it, there are rules. But come on. So you get on a laptop and answer like a hundred incredibly personal questions. Shit like, “Have you had sex with a prostitute in the past 9 months?”, and “Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a male who has had a sexual relationship with another male?”. I can’t even imagine the number of people who lie about that shit. I’m not saying everyone lies on the questionnaire… but everyone lies on the questionnaire.

ImageSo I get through all that shit, and this douche in a lab coat takes me and sets me up on this metal bed that looks like it came straight out of a Saw movie. The guy starts looking for my veins as he’s marking up my arm and rubbing this gross smelling sterilizing shit on it. I’m being a total champ about the whole thing, by the way. I’m not like those pussies who freak out and tell everyone they think they’re going to pass out. Most people had a friend there to hold their hand, meanwhile I’m sitting by myself googling irregular dick pics to text my friends. Like a boss. But the whole thing was awkwardly quiet. I start thinking, this guy probably thinks I’m really nervous or something. So right as he starts to stick the needle, no, I’m sorry, the cocktail straw in my arm, I jokingly add, “Oh yeah, that’s a good one. That’s my go-to heroin vein.”

Obviously I was kidding. But this guy retracts his arm so fast I thought he was going to fall over. It was like someone cried “bomb” in airport security. He starts asking me a thousand questions like, “When was your last use?” and all this shit. I’m like, chill doc, I was fucking joking. Just trying to ease the tension, I mean, you’re about to stick a noodle in my arm and retract a vat of fluid. I’m just a tiny bit uncomfortable.

But this guy doesn’t believe me. He seriously thinks I do heroin. Like, are you serious? You think I look like someone that does fucking heroin? Not only am I NOT a forty year old hooker, but I’m way too lame for that shit. So now I start to get upset with him. This guy is talking so loudly that he’s actually starting to make a scene. I can only imagine what people are thinking when they turn to see who the Doctor is lecturing on about heroin use, and it turns out to be a ginger in a sorority spirit jersey and uggs. But hey, drugs don’t discriminate.

Moral of the story: Don’t talk about doing heroin. Also, don’t do heroin. We all know what happened to Richie Rich.

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Hello all. By all, I mean my avid readers: My mom, and (if I’m lucky) two of my three roommates. I have a quick story because nothing exciting has happened to me lately.

This happened on one of the first days of classes this year. It was a typical August morning here at Mizzou; hot, humid and overall just really shitty. I remember I was in a particularly bad mood this day  because I’d fallen off my dresser trying to gracefully hop off my top bunk earlier that morning. This isn’t a major problem for most people, but I happen to have cheap Irish skin so I bruise like a god damn peach. I looked like a victim of domestic violence, except I’m single as fuck.

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Before proceeding, I should just come out and say it: I fucking hate people. I mean yeah, I have lots of friends and I love going out and partying and shit, but large groups of strangers make me incredibly uncomfortable. No, that’s not even it. They just make me want to hang myself. Last year, I used to sit in the allergy section of the dining hall just to avoid people. I have no major food allergies of any kind. I’m just weird. You know how uptight white people cross the street when black people walk towards them on sidewalks? I cross no matter who’s coming towards me. I’m racist… like, towards the human race. I hate everyone equally. Actually, I’m looking to invest in an incredibly intimidating pit bull because I hear they scare the shit out of people. If I had one of those fuckers no one would EVER come up to me. When I walk to class, I always have headphones. I’m going to level with you, most of the time I don’t even have music on. It’s just an excuse to not to talk to people on the off chance that I run into someone I know. I’m also always wearing sunglasses. Some people wear sunglasses so they can stare at people but I do the total opposite- it’s all about avoiding EVERYONE.

Anyway, I’m grumpy, bruised, and exceptionally unattractive on this morning. I was crossing Lowry Mall and there were people EVERYWHERE. I tend to walk to class either really early or really late so I walk around when the minimal amount of people are on the sidewalks. For whatever reason, on this day I missed it- the streets were fucking packed. So I’m walking across trying to maintain a safe distance from everyone, when all of the sudden, this freshman on a bike fucking PLOWS right into me.

(It was at this point in my blog that I searched “Bike Accident” on google images to place an image here. I do not ever suggest doing this. On a completely unrelated note, wear a helmet and/or a suit of medieval armor next time you decide to bike somewhere.)

You might ask, how did I know he was a freshman? Great question! Well first off, he had a brand new lanyard swinging around his sweaty, nervous neck. I can’t judge much on this because I used to wear one of those damn things, but now I just love to make fun of them. If you’re not coach of a major sports team or a tour guide at the zoo, you don’t need to wear a lanyard. Second, he was clutching, (I’m not even kidding on this), A MAP OF MIZZOU. Are you serious? I don’t care if you need it, hide that shit. You look like a fool. And third, he was dressed from head to toe in Mizzou gear. Like, we KNOW that you go here. The fact that you’re ON CAMPUS, LIVING IN A DORM, AND GOING TO CLASSES is really a big enough hint all on it’s own. You don’t need to appoint your body a throne to the school. We get it.

This is a picture of the guy.

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Okay, so when I say that he ran into me, I’m not saying he pumped into me and it was a little bit awkward but I kept walking. What I mean is that I went flying. Books flew everywhere, and paper rained down like I was in 10 things I hate about you and I was trying to spread the word on Bogey Lowenstein’s fake party. My phone skidded like ten feet away from me and I fucking. ate. shit. The kid’s bike flew to the side and he fell over like a little bitch, screaming the whole time. I hit the ground and I remembered thinking, did this just happen? Like, is this a joke? I think I actually just lay there for a minute, hoping that if I was still long enough my red hair would blend in with the brick and I could just stay there for ever. Like the freshman was a tyrannosaurs rex and if I was still enough, he wouldn’t see me… maybe I could get out of talking to him and just James Bond the fuck outta there.

So after a minute, I eventually start to get up. This poor dumbass kid is picking up all my books and papers and shit, and I realize he’s been spewing out apologies for the last like 30 seconds. Of course I’m not listening, because I’m too busy analyzing the few materials left in my hands, trying to figure out which one would be most useful in ENDING HIS FUCKING LIFE. So I take my shit back and shove it in my bag, looking at the kid for the first time while he continues to apologize profusely. Turns out, he’s sort of cute. Too bad he was a fucking moron.

But this is where he gets really, really stupid. I hold up a hand to stop his talking (I figured it was more appropriate than shoving my fist down his throat), and I tell him that it’s okay, I’m fine, and to just be more careful next time. He relaxes a bit. Then he looks me up and down, squints his eyes a bit, gets this stupid little grin on his dumb fucking face, and asks me “How you doin?”. Um, WHAT?

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I couldn’t even come up with a response because I was so surprised. Before I could come up with something snarky and impressively offensive to respond to the jackass, he extends his hand a bit and goes, “My name’s Ben”. That’s nice Ben, but I really don’t give a shit. You just nearly killed me with your bike, and you think THIS is an okay action to follow your attempted murder with?

Okay, maybe this works in romantic comedies. Obviously it’s chill when it’s like Jo bumping into Freidrich in Little Women, who then challenges her intellectually to be a better author and a more honest person and they fall in love and live in New York and everything rocks. I think they call it a “Meet Cute”. Yeah, turns out in real life it’s not very cute. It’s actually just obnoxious and potentially life threatening.  Jo’s meet cute just doesn’t apply here, not only because I’m WAY uglier than Winona Ruder, but because YOU, BEN, ARE A DUMBASS. I honestly wish I had just gone with it and hung out with him, so I could figure out his story and then RUIN his entire life. Instead, I just stared at him like this:

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Am I overreacting here? Okay, obviously he didn’t mean to hit me with his bike. And maybe he was just being friendly. But no, I’m not over reacting. I’m definitely right. I don’t know the typical protocol, because I don’t have shit for brains and have therefore never run into anyone on a bike, but I’m about 98% positive that hitting on them is not the proper response. I’m pretty sure all you can do is completely remove yourself from that person’s space/life, just to spare them any more time in your intolerable presence. There a few morals to this story. First, if you are a freshman- go home, and kill yourself. Second, if you ride a bike, ride it on the street to piss off those people instead, and kill yourself. And third, if you are Ben, kill yourself.

In conclusion: Dear Ben,
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Hello friends.

As I sit here on my bunk, pondering the inevitably shambly events of the night ahead of me, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia. This is because tonight, I will be fropping. For those of you who don’t know, that means frat-hopping; the art of drunkenly stumbling from one fraternity to another, acquiring a higher blood alcohol content as the night goes on.

Last year, I did my fair share of fropping. I did some really weird shit, actually. One time I stole an office chair- No, like a huge, black leather, rolling office chair. I just rolled it out of the fraternity house, up the street, into my residence hall, up the elevator, into my dorm room. I can’t begin to explain the bizarre thoughts running through my head when I woke up. Last time I saw it, it was in the office of the President of the hall. Another time I spoke in an Irish accent and convinced everyone that my name was Lucille. I said I was from Dublin and my family had a potato farm. I don’t know.

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But this year, I’ve severely cut down my fraternity intake, opting for the bars or house parties. I still go, but usually after other said debaucheries. I find it easier to stomach when I’m too drunk to actually comprehend what’s going on. Don’t get me wrong, frat parties rock. But one can’t help notice a few negative aspects of these ragers. Allow me to point out a few.

First off, and probably the most obvious, WHO LIKES CONGRESS? Nobody. I love frat guys for spending their hard asked-for money on alcohol for bitches like us, but I just cannot continue to stomach polls of Dierberg’s brand vodka followed by larger-than-liter bottles with the title “ORANGE” on them. Like, that’s not vodka, and that’s not soda. I’ll pretty much drink anything, but sometimes I feel like I’m just chugging nail polish remover. It’s gotten to the point where when I find a room with slightly less shitty alcohol like Burnett’s, I consider it a gift from God. No, like seriously I man that room like it’s my fucking job. And when it gets to me I take more than my fair share. I’m not even  sorry that I’m not sorry.

ImageNOT REAL SODA.

Second, I am a terrible dancer. Sure, If I get a few drinks I think I can throw down like Beyonce, but what I actually look like is the girl with braces who dances in the back of the convertible in Rebecca Black’s “Friday” Music video. I usually just think moving my butt will do the trick, but then I forget that I have arms and hands. There’s just a whole lot of flailing and it’s not pretty. You’d think I was having a seizure if I weren’t standing upright(ish) and somewhat coherently asking for more alcohol. But at least I KNOW that I dance with the sex appeal of a cereal box. There are always those twig bitches that are dancing in a circle, thinking they’re the fucking pussy cat dolls. Like no, you have never looked more white. You’re tacky and I hate you. This is me last year, grinding on a pole trying to be sexy:

Image Maybe my dancing would be better if they didn’t have a loop of songs by the same shitty artists. How much Mac Miller and Sammy Adams can a person stand? I get it, though. Might as well listen to white boys who think they’re hard while surrounded by other white boys who think they’re hard. It’s either shitty white boy rap or techno that could give people epilepsy. I just really hate it when the speakers blast noises that resemble a robot farting.

Sidenote- there’s always that one drunk guy who asks if I’m a natural redhead. Would you ask a blonde that? Yes, I was born a ginger and thus I have no soul, rendering me completely unsympathetic when I murder you and your family. Here’s an incredibly attractive childhood picture to prove it. Try not to be seduced.

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Then you have to pee. So you grab a friend (don’t go alone, you will die) and run out of the blacklit room you’re in. It then takes about forty five minute for your eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lights of the frat hallways. You wander around looking for the bathroom, meanwhile looking about ten times worse than you did walking into the house. I don’t even know how it happens. When are they going to invent drunk-proof makeup? Like ok, I can swim for three hours and my makeup will look fine but two shots and a minute of dancing later I look like Janice from mean girls. So you find the bathroom. THERES LIQUID EVERYWHERE. You don’t even know WHAT it is, but you’re smart/drunk enough not to ask questions. Also, there’s also ALWAYS a drunk guy peeing in there, and he doesn’t care what you see. So you take a few pics. Just to be safe.

You then repeat all of these steps until you either: A) Say “Hey, I’m pretty drunk, better go home!” (This never happens. Just thought I’d throw it in for shits and gigs). B) Your friend realizes you are too drunk to function and drags you home. C) You start hooking up with a weirdo and that voice in the back of your head screaming “herpes…” gets louder and louder until you are forced to deal with it. Or D) You want pizza. I should note that E (You don’t go home, you shack) Is also a valid option. More about shacking later.

ImageThis is one of my many glamorous morning-afters. the “D” stands for drunk (still).

Obviously other things happen. Like sometimes you hook up with that kid you went to grade school with, rendering your relationship awkward for all of eternity. Or sometimes you try and steal a composite (Those things are fucking heavy, I don’t recommend this. It’s also really awkward when you inevitable get caught). Or sometimes you do something cool and potentially life threatening like climb on the roof or drink moonshine. What’s cool about frat parties is that no one gives a fuck. It’s like you take a couple hours out from reality to do weird shit with weirder people. And it’s like Arby’s, you always meet the coolest kids. Like that guy who spoke fluent Chinese (granted, he might’ve been making it up, but A for effort). Or that one kid I met who had the tattoo of Mario on his ass.

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Point is, I may hate on frat parties, but they’re still the most fun I’ve ever had. In a few years I’ll probably be that weird senior that still goes, and I will have zero embarrassment about it. Where else can I demonstrate that I know every word to “Afroman” by Colt 45? Where else can I chug numerous natties and not want to die of shame? So keep doin’ you, frats; keep throwin down. If you throw it, sluts will come. They’ll come to Greektown for reasons they can’t even fathom. They’ll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they’re doing it. They’ll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won’t mind if you look around, you’ll say. Oh… sluts will come, Frats. Sluts will most definitely come.