i was sitting in english class yesterday, "introduction to the major," while the class was discussing the book we were reading. tired, i began slowly zoning out. i slightly perked up at the word facebook, and turned my attention back to my professor.
an older, long-bearded, spectacle wearing man.he was going on about his facebook, and how he was on it last night, when out of the blue he bellows
"actually, i saw you!"
i jerk in my seat. he has one long arm and his pointer finger stretched out and is pointing, well, in my approximate direction.
i look behind me then in front of me, confident that it was not me he had just made eye contact with when he said that.
he repeats, re-jutting the arm and finger.
"yeah! i saw you!"
there is no mistake. he's addressing me.
"me?" i quaver.
"yeah! you! i was checking you out!"
i cringe at those damning words. the class erupts in laughter. i try to keep imminent embarrassment at bay. it doesn't work.
"oh?" i quiver.
"oh, i wasn't checking you out" he says goodnaturedly, too late. "but i did see you!"
still, i'm not quite sure how he saw me or even if it was me he saw. if it was me, he would have seen a picture of the lower half of my face and top half of my torso in a red dress with every inch of my open skin pasted with many bright and gaudily glittered tattoos. somehow, i doubt he saw this. or perhaps it's just wishful thinking on my part.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
uhh...well...
just the other day, low unknowingly on fuel, me and sister c found need to stop in medford for a boost of it.
we stopped at the nearest gas station, swerved up, and parked ourselves alongside a dispenser. the man came up, asked us what we would like...etc.. and then he mentioned the universal: "would you like me to check your oil?"
a question that we usually respond "no" to. but sister c, letting the winds of spontaneity carry her replied "sure." i turned to her with a slightly startled expression on my face. "uh," i said, "we're in a hurry! why'd you do that for?"
"i don't know," she said. "it just sort of slipped out." i growled in annoyance.
the man swept by and told us to go ahead and pop the hood. moments later, sister c turns to me and whispers "where do we pop the hood?" me, thinking i know everything, replied that it was where the gas cap lever was. but no...
"that's for the trunk," she said. a slight frantic bulging of the eyes accompanying this statement.
"oh, well you're going to have to tell him to skip it today."
she shrunk in her seat as he came back around.
"actually, you don't need to check the oil. i, well, i don't know how to pop my hood."
he looked at us then turned his back to finish our fuel transaction. i thought maybe he hadn't heard her. slowly he turned around looked at us again, and pointed at an area slightly lower and to the left of the steering wheel.
"there." he said.
"oh. well i'm sure our dad checks it for us."
he handed over the receipt.
"well, thankyou!" sister c brightly shouted. as she zoomed full throttle out of the parking lot.
"'i don't know how to pop my hood.'" i quoted thoughtfully. "you know, that could be taken the wrong way."
we stopped at the nearest gas station, swerved up, and parked ourselves alongside a dispenser. the man came up, asked us what we would like...etc.. and then he mentioned the universal: "would you like me to check your oil?"
a question that we usually respond "no" to. but sister c, letting the winds of spontaneity carry her replied "sure." i turned to her with a slightly startled expression on my face. "uh," i said, "we're in a hurry! why'd you do that for?"
"i don't know," she said. "it just sort of slipped out." i growled in annoyance.
the man swept by and told us to go ahead and pop the hood. moments later, sister c turns to me and whispers "where do we pop the hood?" me, thinking i know everything, replied that it was where the gas cap lever was. but no...
"that's for the trunk," she said. a slight frantic bulging of the eyes accompanying this statement.
"oh, well you're going to have to tell him to skip it today."
she shrunk in her seat as he came back around.
"actually, you don't need to check the oil. i, well, i don't know how to pop my hood."
he looked at us then turned his back to finish our fuel transaction. i thought maybe he hadn't heard her. slowly he turned around looked at us again, and pointed at an area slightly lower and to the left of the steering wheel.
"there." he said.
"oh. well i'm sure our dad checks it for us."
he handed over the receipt.
"well, thankyou!" sister c brightly shouted. as she zoomed full throttle out of the parking lot.
"'i don't know how to pop my hood.'" i quoted thoughtfully. "you know, that could be taken the wrong way."
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
resurgence of "the wolf"
last year, if my memory serves, i had mentioned “wolf hunting.”
---
january 2009
as part of the name brigade
and i quote
the wolf= a girl miss rabbit knows; always wears a wolf shirt and has a man voice; me and miss rabbit go wolf hunting all the time
end quote.
---
well, ladies and gentlemen, i never thought i’d live to see the day, that i’d actually HAVE A CLASS WITH THIS SPECIMEN! french 102.
it’s a relatively small class, and on the first day we gathered our desks around in a circle, and introduced ourselves. for blogging purposes only, i have persuaded the vestiges of morality left in my brain to allow me to use the wolfs first name. it just adds a special something to "it."
we je m'appelle(d) our way around the room when the torch came to "shelby" (again, real name). me, bored and not paying attention perked up at her coarse and entirely american "jam apphell." i looked at the owner of this, and oh god my sweet lawrd! the wolf!
the wolf, with her ever-present scarf (headband? hankie?) tied indian style around her forehead. her frizzy dishwater blonde hair confined in a low ponytail. her pink complexioned face. manly features. testosterone infused vocal chords. and her t-shirt. navy blue cotton with a roaring wolf image splayed across it's front. oh, and the high waisted boys jeans she does not, i regret to say, wear well.
everyday i am faced with this wolf. everyday she speaks her bad french, is a day i unsuccessfully stifle smiles and giggles. i know it's mean, but with all the history i know about her and then seeing her in the flesh, it's overwhelming.
a classic wolf behaviorism:
the wolf was asked to partner up with a girl across the room for a conversation piece acted out in front of the class. since the desks are locked in a circular shape, the wolf instead of scooching one out and squeezing between it, climbed atop her desk, dirty black hiking boots shuffling her across, crawled hands above knees, and then swung/jumped herself off like she was acting in an action movie. a really horrible action movie.
it was painful to watch. extremely painful.
and today, madame g was gone so madame s was teaching, and she passed around the roll sheet on which everyone who was present wrote down their name. the paper came to me i looked down, there written in broad boyish print:
Shelby "the Wolf" -last name-.
i had no words.
---
january 2009
as part of the name brigade
and i quote
the wolf= a girl miss rabbit knows; always wears a wolf shirt and has a man voice; me and miss rabbit go wolf hunting all the time
end quote.
---
well, ladies and gentlemen, i never thought i’d live to see the day, that i’d actually HAVE A CLASS WITH THIS SPECIMEN! french 102.
it’s a relatively small class, and on the first day we gathered our desks around in a circle, and introduced ourselves. for blogging purposes only, i have persuaded the vestiges of morality left in my brain to allow me to use the wolfs first name. it just adds a special something to "it."
we je m'appelle(d) our way around the room when the torch came to "shelby" (again, real name). me, bored and not paying attention perked up at her coarse and entirely american "jam apphell." i looked at the owner of this, and oh god my sweet lawrd! the wolf!
the wolf, with her ever-present scarf (headband? hankie?) tied indian style around her forehead. her frizzy dishwater blonde hair confined in a low ponytail. her pink complexioned face. manly features. testosterone infused vocal chords. and her t-shirt. navy blue cotton with a roaring wolf image splayed across it's front. oh, and the high waisted boys jeans she does not, i regret to say, wear well.
everyday i am faced with this wolf. everyday she speaks her bad french, is a day i unsuccessfully stifle smiles and giggles. i know it's mean, but with all the history i know about her and then seeing her in the flesh, it's overwhelming.
a classic wolf behaviorism:
the wolf was asked to partner up with a girl across the room for a conversation piece acted out in front of the class. since the desks are locked in a circular shape, the wolf instead of scooching one out and squeezing between it, climbed atop her desk, dirty black hiking boots shuffling her across, crawled hands above knees, and then swung/jumped herself off like she was acting in an action movie. a really horrible action movie.
it was painful to watch. extremely painful.
and today, madame g was gone so madame s was teaching, and she passed around the roll sheet on which everyone who was present wrote down their name. the paper came to me i looked down, there written in broad boyish print:
Shelby "the Wolf" -last name-.
i had no words.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
ups men: voyeurs or victims
last month, like i always do, i came up with a grand photo shoot idea.
dirty eves, i exclaimed. it's perfect! we can dress in leaves, go out to the garden and do a garden of eden shoot!
of course, sister c totally fell for it.
we spent hours on our look.
strapless bras, skimpy panties, both which we plastered with sticky green bean leaves so it looked as if we wore nothing but leaves.
monstrous lioness hair. crimped, ironed, ratted, and hairsprayed to the max.
deep goddess green eyeshadow lining our eyes and strike it rich gold highlighting our brow bones.
bronze dark lipstick. potent blush on cheeks.
finally, we were picture perfect.
i brought out a rihanna cd to blast from the stereo in the garage, and we headed out to the garden.
as we got to the entrance, sister c stopped and asked
did mother k and scary gary lock the gate?
of course they did, i replied.
i never thought otherwise. they always did when the left.
i kicked off my garden clogs in the pathway, and we kicked off the garden of eden shoot.
we hid in the gargantuan tomato bushes, peeked through the viny green beans, and layed amongst the spreading cucumbers. we were having a ball.
give me fairy pose!
give me goddess pose!
give me sports illustrated pose!
what's that noise?
we froze. a low rumbling could be heard. helicopters? thunder?
ups man?
shocked, we turned to the roaring source.
it turned out, the gate was not locked.
we stared, openmouthed, as the big brown box sped up the driveway.
we threw each other an outraged glance and together, in perfect synchronicity, we dived under the nearby fig tree. praying its voluptuous leaves would cover our bareness. we stifled shrieks as the big brown box came to a noisless halt.
we flattened ourselves even more into the dirt.
sister c, in the position to spy, gave me a play by play as i lay there stiff.
"he got out. he's walking towards the door. he's going around to the back where the pool is! we could have been skinny dipping! uh oh, he's coming towards the garden! he stopped! whew... he's leaving!"
we breathed sighs of heavenly relief.
we got up, brushed ourselves off, and began to walk to the garden door. only to observe it's wide open welcomeness, and the scene of my garden clogs footless in the visible path, looking as if they had been thrown off in haste.
we agreed. we were dang lucky dirty evies.
dirty eves, i exclaimed. it's perfect! we can dress in leaves, go out to the garden and do a garden of eden shoot!
of course, sister c totally fell for it.
we spent hours on our look.
strapless bras, skimpy panties, both which we plastered with sticky green bean leaves so it looked as if we wore nothing but leaves.
monstrous lioness hair. crimped, ironed, ratted, and hairsprayed to the max.
deep goddess green eyeshadow lining our eyes and strike it rich gold highlighting our brow bones.
bronze dark lipstick. potent blush on cheeks.
finally, we were picture perfect.
i brought out a rihanna cd to blast from the stereo in the garage, and we headed out to the garden.
as we got to the entrance, sister c stopped and asked
did mother k and scary gary lock the gate?
of course they did, i replied.
i never thought otherwise. they always did when the left.
i kicked off my garden clogs in the pathway, and we kicked off the garden of eden shoot.
we hid in the gargantuan tomato bushes, peeked through the viny green beans, and layed amongst the spreading cucumbers. we were having a ball.
give me fairy pose!
give me goddess pose!
give me sports illustrated pose!
what's that noise?
we froze. a low rumbling could be heard. helicopters? thunder?
ups man?
shocked, we turned to the roaring source.
it turned out, the gate was not locked.
we stared, openmouthed, as the big brown box sped up the driveway.
we threw each other an outraged glance and together, in perfect synchronicity, we dived under the nearby fig tree. praying its voluptuous leaves would cover our bareness. we stifled shrieks as the big brown box came to a noisless halt.
we flattened ourselves even more into the dirt.
sister c, in the position to spy, gave me a play by play as i lay there stiff.
"he got out. he's walking towards the door. he's going around to the back where the pool is! we could have been skinny dipping! uh oh, he's coming towards the garden! he stopped! whew... he's leaving!"
we breathed sighs of heavenly relief.
we got up, brushed ourselves off, and began to walk to the garden door. only to observe it's wide open welcomeness, and the scene of my garden clogs footless in the visible path, looking as if they had been thrown off in haste.
we agreed. we were dang lucky dirty evies.
lust without love
i was sitting here. thinking that i needed to find inspiration to resume my blogging, when sister c provided perfect blogging fodder.
i was rereading old blog posts, when out of the blue she says:
-remember craig? didn't i tell you about him?
i roll my eyes.
+yes sister c, you went on about him just the other day. the older science guy with the two kids, right?
-right, she sighed.
silence. i waited for the inevitable to continue.
-he was the sexiest man i've ever met.
(my eyes bulged at these foreign words coming out of her mouth)
-he was cute and everything, but just something about him was so sexy.
-you know,
(my attention started to wander as she took a deep breath)
-if he had ducked into a science room, i would have ducked in with him.
screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech...my mind halted. i blinked. numerous times. what?
+uh, i said, staring at her, i'm assuming you wouldn't be talking about black holes. at least not scientific ones.
she gave an embarrassed giggle.
-oh stop it. i was just thinking that that was total lust without love. i've never felt so instinctively attracted to someone before.
i held myself immobilized as her statements washed over me. my body quivered in offense to this wrong, oh so very wrong conversation.
as much as i tried to muffle her, one last statement spilled out
-i wrote two poems about hiiiimmmmmuffle.
i forbid myself to even entertain the thought of these two poems. what could be written in them could scar me for life.
i was rereading old blog posts, when out of the blue she says:
-remember craig? didn't i tell you about him?
i roll my eyes.
+yes sister c, you went on about him just the other day. the older science guy with the two kids, right?
-right, she sighed.
silence. i waited for the inevitable to continue.
-he was the sexiest man i've ever met.
(my eyes bulged at these foreign words coming out of her mouth)
-he was cute and everything, but just something about him was so sexy.
-you know,
(my attention started to wander as she took a deep breath)
-if he had ducked into a science room, i would have ducked in with him.
screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech...my mind halted. i blinked. numerous times. what?
+uh, i said, staring at her, i'm assuming you wouldn't be talking about black holes. at least not scientific ones.
she gave an embarrassed giggle.
-oh stop it. i was just thinking that that was total lust without love. i've never felt so instinctively attracted to someone before.
i held myself immobilized as her statements washed over me. my body quivered in offense to this wrong, oh so very wrong conversation.
as much as i tried to muffle her, one last statement spilled out
-i wrote two poems about hiiiimmmmmuffle.
i forbid myself to even entertain the thought of these two poems. what could be written in them could scar me for life.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
a long-needed sighting of mr pompom
i am happy to announce that i have had a recent sighting of mr pompom! now that i am not a part of chemistry any more, i have felt the severe loss of not seeing mr pompom on a nearly daily basis.
the sighting
so just because it was convenient, i decided to use one of the upper-level science computer labs to print out some miscellaneous papers. i trekked up the two flights, and arrived in a moderately filled computer lab. i spotted an open computer and plopped down. the chair to my right was empty, but the computer was in use.
i started to take care of business, when plop! the mysterious computer user had returned. and to my pleasure and surprise it was mr pompom! i rejoiced at the sight of his grizzly beard, fuzzy head of hair, dumbledore glasses, and quirky baseball cap. i grinned.
out of my periphery, i noticed that he was working on a chemistry lab write-up. and was having a pretty tough time with it.
this was evidenced by the heavy sighs, grunts, moans, "under-his-breath" mutterings, and fist pounds that conveyed his frustration.
and like only mr pompom can do, after each sigh/grunt/moan/mutter/fist pound (which i believe were all a slight bit exaggerated for dramatic effect) he would slowly angle his head and peek at my expression. after the tenth time, i couldn't help but giggle and give him a huge grin.
ahhh...i adore him.
the sighting
so just because it was convenient, i decided to use one of the upper-level science computer labs to print out some miscellaneous papers. i trekked up the two flights, and arrived in a moderately filled computer lab. i spotted an open computer and plopped down. the chair to my right was empty, but the computer was in use.
i started to take care of business, when plop! the mysterious computer user had returned. and to my pleasure and surprise it was mr pompom! i rejoiced at the sight of his grizzly beard, fuzzy head of hair, dumbledore glasses, and quirky baseball cap. i grinned.
out of my periphery, i noticed that he was working on a chemistry lab write-up. and was having a pretty tough time with it.
this was evidenced by the heavy sighs, grunts, moans, "under-his-breath" mutterings, and fist pounds that conveyed his frustration.
and like only mr pompom can do, after each sigh/grunt/moan/mutter/fist pound (which i believe were all a slight bit exaggerated for dramatic effect) he would slowly angle his head and peek at my expression. after the tenth time, i couldn't help but giggle and give him a huge grin.
ahhh...i adore him.
may i see your contact sheets?
for my final project in photography, i decided to make an idea i had ruminating in my mind for some time, into reality. the idea was this: to do a photo shoot that was reminiscent of 1920 french nude postcards, except that the models would be wearing black lace panties, corsets, tights ect, and perhaps in some frames nothing at all.
who were the models? me and daylily. sister c was supposed to be the third but due to her crash injury (big gash in forehead) she opted out.
because of the depth of my excitement for the shoot, i put a motherload of thought and effort into making a decent set, appropriate erotic outfits, and even invested in yards of black lace and black cotton fabric.
i was pumped. the day came and passed. everything went fairly smoothly, and i was sure i had gotten some good pictures.
a few days later, when i had a big chunk of free time, i decided to develop the three rolls of film i had taken, and enlarge some of the decent ones. i developed the film alone, and without incident. but when the time came to start enlarging some pictures, my professor came into the photo lab.
i greeted him (description: young, glasses, more sensitively effeminate than ruggedly mannish)and instead of responding and leaving me to my own devices he kept walking over to my station.
-so how's your project going?
+oh, good. i did a shoot over the weekend and took three rolls, so i hope i got some good pictures.
-what is it that you did?
+oh, well. (i hemmed and hawed). my idea was to do a shoot reminiscent of the 1920s burlesque and pinup girls and such. with lots of black lace. (i tried to stay in safe and tactful zone).
-oh really? may i see the contact sheets when they're done?
my eyes shuttered as my tongue stuck to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. like someone right before death, my photo shoot flashed before my eyes.
daylily naked, daylily with corset and panties, ME with playboy-esque black bunny outfit, ME with only tights and black lace panties... you get the picture.
ME.
+uhhhhhhhhh... sure. (what was i supposed to say?)
i zoomed into the dark room, where i sequestered myself for the following three hours. every time i ventured out of the safe haven, i peeked my head out of the curtains and scoped out the working area. professor absent? i went out. professor present? i slowly retracted my head and sped back into my cave.
once when i had to go out into the light and check on the test strip i had made, i unwittingly went out. i glanced at the tables. professor and teacher's aide present and talking. whipped my head back to me test strip, strove to look extremely focused and busy. and marched straight back into the dark room. throwing open the curtains as i went.
having passed that crucial day unscathed, i now feel that my contacts will remain pure from the professors gaze. if he happens to request a viewing, they are officially lost, retired, gone, back at home, ect...
who were the models? me and daylily. sister c was supposed to be the third but due to her crash injury (big gash in forehead) she opted out.
because of the depth of my excitement for the shoot, i put a motherload of thought and effort into making a decent set, appropriate erotic outfits, and even invested in yards of black lace and black cotton fabric.
i was pumped. the day came and passed. everything went fairly smoothly, and i was sure i had gotten some good pictures.
a few days later, when i had a big chunk of free time, i decided to develop the three rolls of film i had taken, and enlarge some of the decent ones. i developed the film alone, and without incident. but when the time came to start enlarging some pictures, my professor came into the photo lab.
i greeted him (description: young, glasses, more sensitively effeminate than ruggedly mannish)and instead of responding and leaving me to my own devices he kept walking over to my station.
-so how's your project going?
+oh, good. i did a shoot over the weekend and took three rolls, so i hope i got some good pictures.
-what is it that you did?
+oh, well. (i hemmed and hawed). my idea was to do a shoot reminiscent of the 1920s burlesque and pinup girls and such. with lots of black lace. (i tried to stay in safe and tactful zone).
-oh really? may i see the contact sheets when they're done?
my eyes shuttered as my tongue stuck to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. like someone right before death, my photo shoot flashed before my eyes.
daylily naked, daylily with corset and panties, ME with playboy-esque black bunny outfit, ME with only tights and black lace panties... you get the picture.
ME.
+uhhhhhhhhh... sure. (what was i supposed to say?)
i zoomed into the dark room, where i sequestered myself for the following three hours. every time i ventured out of the safe haven, i peeked my head out of the curtains and scoped out the working area. professor absent? i went out. professor present? i slowly retracted my head and sped back into my cave.
once when i had to go out into the light and check on the test strip i had made, i unwittingly went out. i glanced at the tables. professor and teacher's aide present and talking. whipped my head back to me test strip, strove to look extremely focused and busy. and marched straight back into the dark room. throwing open the curtains as i went.
having passed that crucial day unscathed, i now feel that my contacts will remain pure from the professors gaze. if he happens to request a viewing, they are officially lost, retired, gone, back at home, ect...
how to achieve the wind-mill effect
there's this little trick i've been playing on mother k. she complains that it destroys her delicate sensibilities. i say, it's great fun. and entertainment.
PROCEDURES TO ACHIEVE DESIRED WIND-MILL EFFECT:
acquire mother k's cell phone. try to find it when it's not attached to her butt, hip, or breast
if she is in the same room, move to an adjacent one, out of her far-sighted sight
station yourself-ex: chair, couch, stool...
open phone, search for the sounds category, find ring tone (lovesway-scary gary's, bossabutgo-sister c's, tea in the afternoon-daylily's), play a snippet of the ringtone
pause background sounds
if no footsteps are to be heard, start shouting--> get the phone, get the phone
upon hearing what sounds like a stampede, sit back and enjoy the show
THE WIND-MILL EFFECT IN ACTION:
immediately after hearing her hunny's ring, or her precious daughter's, mother k shoots out of her throne (whether it be lavatory or otherwise)and rushes into the room her ears lead her to
as she gallops into the room at a frantic and harried pace, she flails her arms in a frenetic whirling motion. circular and whippy, her arms appear as if noodles just out al dente from their boiling water bath. (hence THE WIND-MILL EFFECT)
her face is lightly shiny from perspiration thanks to her run, and her eyes are focused on the small black piece of technology in my hands
as this odd behavior is exhibited, she screeches
give it to me, GIVE IT TO ME!
i proceed to do just that
she puts it up to her ear, not bothering to look at the screen (which tells all), and breathes out a hello
only to be met with silence
JUNE! she throws down the phone in a fit. JUNE!
her eyes squint in anger, and again her arms resume their flailing motion as she launches herself at me like a tiger.
i run. the chase commences.
PROCEDURES TO ACHIEVE DESIRED WIND-MILL EFFECT:
acquire mother k's cell phone. try to find it when it's not attached to her butt, hip, or breast
if she is in the same room, move to an adjacent one, out of her far-sighted sight
station yourself-ex: chair, couch, stool...
open phone, search for the sounds category, find ring tone (lovesway-scary gary's, bossabutgo-sister c's, tea in the afternoon-daylily's), play a snippet of the ringtone
pause background sounds
if no footsteps are to be heard, start shouting--> get the phone, get the phone
upon hearing what sounds like a stampede, sit back and enjoy the show
THE WIND-MILL EFFECT IN ACTION:
immediately after hearing her hunny's ring, or her precious daughter's, mother k shoots out of her throne (whether it be lavatory or otherwise)and rushes into the room her ears lead her to
as she gallops into the room at a frantic and harried pace, she flails her arms in a frenetic whirling motion. circular and whippy, her arms appear as if noodles just out al dente from their boiling water bath. (hence THE WIND-MILL EFFECT)
her face is lightly shiny from perspiration thanks to her run, and her eyes are focused on the small black piece of technology in my hands
as this odd behavior is exhibited, she screeches
give it to me, GIVE IT TO ME!
i proceed to do just that
she puts it up to her ear, not bothering to look at the screen (which tells all), and breathes out a hello
only to be met with silence
JUNE! she throws down the phone in a fit. JUNE!
her eyes squint in anger, and again her arms resume their flailing motion as she launches herself at me like a tiger.
i run. the chase commences.
coffee snob vs. coffee slut
mother k= the coffee snob
me, june jaynes= the coffee slut
let me define these terms.
coffee snob: a caffeine junkie who holds high expectations about the quality of coffee beans, only drinks smooth and non-acidic brew, and buys their daily java for exorbitant prices off the internet
coffee slut: a caffeine junkie who expects nothing of their coffee, and their only requirement is that it gives them the desired buzz
me, june jaynes= the coffee slut
let me define these terms.
coffee snob: a caffeine junkie who holds high expectations about the quality of coffee beans, only drinks smooth and non-acidic brew, and buys their daily java for exorbitant prices off the internet
coffee slut: a caffeine junkie who expects nothing of their coffee, and their only requirement is that it gives them the desired buzz
recycling bins: theft or opportunity?
everyday, on my way to my room, i always pass by the bright blue row of recycling bins. before now, i have virtually ignored their existence, just seeing them as another form of garbage cans, but not now. now, that is not the case. now, i see them as big bins of cash, just waiting to be taken advantage of.
it all stemmed from an epiphany i had. i had just finished chugging down my water when i took a real good look at the bottle. CASH REFUND CA HI and OR 5₵. i froze, amazed at my find. even though i did know that water bottles could now be recycled for $$, it hadn’t really clicked. then, my brain got to thinking. if i didn’t remember, then a whole lot of other people probably didn’t either.
i tested this hypothesis by going in search of the mini recycle bin on our floor. i peeked in the plastic labeled crate and voila! mother lode. mutha uckin lode. i ran back into my room, grabbed a reusable shopping bag, unlocked my door and propped it open, ran back into the laundry room, grabbed as many bottles as i could, and fled from the crime scene. i was fifty cents richer.
thus began my raids on the small recycling bins. but after a week, i was ready to take on the big daddies. the big bright blue bins that i regularly walked past every day. the oh-so-convenient bins that made it so easy to drop in one’s recycling as they walked past them. i made plans—plans that included getting up really early in the morning, sneaking downstairs to their location, and pilfering them all.
unfortunately, my plans blew up into tiny little plastic fragments, after mother k so sweetly said: isn’t taking plastic bottles from the recycling bins a crime? i thought, wondered, and stewed about this for days. is it? or is it just a shady opportunity? what would happen if i did get caught? would i get punished, and then become notorious around campus as the plastic pilferer?
then one day my turf was invaded. i was washing strawberries in the sink in the laundry room, when a gaggle of girls stampeded in.
quick! two said.
the third took four steps in, glanced at the plastic recycling bin, realized it was empty of treasure, and altogether they bolted. i was furious. i had abstained from my possibly criminal activities just to be shown up like that? oh hell no.
relying on your discretion, i now do admit the occasional ransacking of crates. only when i am there, and only when no one is about. i have begun to store them safely in the second closet in my room. i await the day when i have enough to buy something of substance.
it all stemmed from an epiphany i had. i had just finished chugging down my water when i took a real good look at the bottle. CASH REFUND CA HI and OR 5₵. i froze, amazed at my find. even though i did know that water bottles could now be recycled for $$, it hadn’t really clicked. then, my brain got to thinking. if i didn’t remember, then a whole lot of other people probably didn’t either.
i tested this hypothesis by going in search of the mini recycle bin on our floor. i peeked in the plastic labeled crate and voila! mother lode. mutha uckin lode. i ran back into my room, grabbed a reusable shopping bag, unlocked my door and propped it open, ran back into the laundry room, grabbed as many bottles as i could, and fled from the crime scene. i was fifty cents richer.
thus began my raids on the small recycling bins. but after a week, i was ready to take on the big daddies. the big bright blue bins that i regularly walked past every day. the oh-so-convenient bins that made it so easy to drop in one’s recycling as they walked past them. i made plans—plans that included getting up really early in the morning, sneaking downstairs to their location, and pilfering them all.
unfortunately, my plans blew up into tiny little plastic fragments, after mother k so sweetly said: isn’t taking plastic bottles from the recycling bins a crime? i thought, wondered, and stewed about this for days. is it? or is it just a shady opportunity? what would happen if i did get caught? would i get punished, and then become notorious around campus as the plastic pilferer?
then one day my turf was invaded. i was washing strawberries in the sink in the laundry room, when a gaggle of girls stampeded in.
quick! two said.
the third took four steps in, glanced at the plastic recycling bin, realized it was empty of treasure, and altogether they bolted. i was furious. i had abstained from my possibly criminal activities just to be shown up like that? oh hell no.
relying on your discretion, i now do admit the occasional ransacking of crates. only when i am there, and only when no one is about. i have begun to store them safely in the second closet in my room. i await the day when i have enough to buy something of substance.
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