Ramblings From Hell
I have always had vivid dreams. As a child, my dreams would sometimes be so vibrant that I could not separate them from reality. I would insist to my mother that I had done something, get angry because I had dreamed something was in one place and in real life it wasn’t there, or I would be convinced that certain things had happened to me when they really did not. Man vs. dream: the story of my life.
Talk Nerdy To Me
I just got back from West Virginia. Whenever I’m home and run into a high school friend (which always seems to happen at Wal-Mart), I always ask 3 questions: who’s married?, who’s engaged?, and the big one: who’s pregnant? At least ten of my high school friends are pregnant or already have children. The scary thing is that most of them are my age, and I’m just turning 20 today. After spending time with a friend’s baby, I couldn’t help but wonder if I want kids.
Brouhaha Rhythm
It seems to me that most of our generation agrees that child and pre-teen television programming these days just isn’t as good as it used to be. If that strikes you as a random topic to be writing about, it probably is, but ask around and I suspect you’ll find awareness of it to be more widespread than one might suspect. The quality has simply gone down.
Ramblings From Hell
On Thursday afternoon, I ran into my freshman year roommate. She was the second person I met at MIT, right after I arrived in my room and my temporary roommate and I went down to the lobby to mingle. We have been good friends ever since. Ours is one of those friendships that is based on mutual respect and trust, and not on common values and opinions (she is a conservative Republican and I am a liberal Democrat). I mention her because she is one of those people I like to have around when I want to vent. We will be 1,038 miles apart next year.
Squid Vs. Whale
<b>Scene I: Alexandra and I are having dinner at a swanky bar. I am returning from outside.</b>
Squid vs. Whale
I am a long way from Texas. If I were in Texas, I would not be freezing my balls off. On Friday, the 27th of February, 2009, the high in San Antonio, TX—the city where I grew up—was 92 degrees. I shit you not. 92 degrees. That is six degrees separated from a boy band and hot enough for swimming. Chapstick. That’s how I know I’m a long way from home. Burt’s Bees Wax Pomegranate Lip Balm. It is the greatest thing ever recommended to me—and the reason my lips aren’t bleeding profusely.
Ramblings From Hell
It is Friday night at 8:00 p.m., and I am sitting with crumbs from what was formerly a $16.99 block of parmesan. My cable hasn’t been working for the past two days. This is unfortunate, because I returned to my apartment ten minutes ago filled with the desire to do nothing but finish this parmesan and watch C-SPAN.
Ramblings From Hell
When did snow lose its magic? Last week, when a friend told me it was going to snow, I responded with, “Oh God. Seriously?”
Brouhaha Rhythm
I consider myself extremely fortunate to be living in a metropolitan area with a public transportation system as good as Boston’s, because without it, my horrendous sense of direction and I would have me wandering around Memphis long before I’d find room 7-107 or whatever. That’s Memphis, Tennessee if I bite the bullet and ask for directions and historical downtown Memphis, Egypt, otherwise. Don’t ask me how; I guarantee I’d manage it, one way or another.
Brouhaha Rhythm
Those who know me well will know that it is impossible for me to be only vaguely interested in something. The moment I get excited about anything; be it a video game, television show, movie, or music group; I go directly into “fanboy mode.” I become almost unhealthily obsessed, becoming as fervent a fan as is physically possible, short of getting logos tattooed on my face. I quote from film and television constantly. I annoy all of my friends, trying to convert them to whatever new cause I’ve adopted. I create relevant costumes for Halloween parties and, in a recent and potentially unsettling development, conventions.
Brouhaha Rhythm
With Valentine’s Day inbound, the annual chorus of its detractors is at its loudest. Some, still hoarse from the holiday season, decry the commercialization of a day supposedly dedicated to romance, while others bemoan the existence of the day at all, concerned that the setting aside of a special day for romance demeans the passion of the everyday.
Talk Nerdy to Me
Last year, I spent Valentine’s Day in a mental hospital. The day before that, I spent a couple of hours in jail. In the age of the Internet, I should be terrified to write this piece, as Google will forever attach it to my name. Then again, my reputation on the World Wide Web isn’t exactly flawless — this information about me is already out there in an MIT Police log and in my personal blog.
Brouhaha Rhythm
The practice of gift-giving around this or any other time of year can be a tricky proposition. Excellent gift ideas abound, but giving the right gift to the right person (at the right price) often requires a certain element of finesse that tends to come and go, at least for me. Gimmicky gifts only make matters more complicated, with their often-overestimated merit invested more in novelty than practical use. Sure, that Christopher Walken bobblehead seemed ironic and amusing back in December, but when someone opens up their gift in a bag because you couldn’t be moved to wrap it yourself (sorry, Mom), is it really going to produce the “audible gasp and speechlessness” or “hyperventilating gush-fest” reactions you were hoping for?
Ramblings From Hell
When I was four, I told my mother that I wanted to grow up to be a cocktail waitress. “I never want to leave home,” I said, “I want to stay here with you forever.” Whenever I remember this, I laugh, until I realize that seventeen years later, my desires aren’t so different.
Squid vs. Whale
1 — <b>Civil and Environmental:</b> Congratulations, Barack says you are not frakked. Now start making windmills.
Talk Nerdy to Me
According to my mother, I started “dating” in preschool. His name was Timothy, and when we’d say “goodbye,” I’d lick him across his face in front of both of our mothers. Now, I know this story sounds far fetched, but all my relatives remind me that I greeted them with slobber, instead of a kiss, until I hit the age of 5. Also, there’s a photograph of a birthday party in preschool, and I’m sitting awfully close to a boy, with my tongue hanging out. On the back of the photo, it says, “Christine and Timothy.”
Brouhaha Rhythm
<i>Editor’s Note: This column was originally intended for publication on December 2nd, but due to the lateness of submission, it was pushed back until this issue.</i>