Too Cool for School

Lairin and I were gchatting today (as we do) and we really hashed a lot of great stuff out. I feel like if we were in the UN, in some capacity, a lot of shit would get done. And by "shit" I mean "existential ramblings about nothing." Allow me to set the stage, Lairin is in the midst of applying to MFA programs:

Lairin: oh god UT Austin wants my "hours earned"

for college

I DON'T FUCKING KNOW

Kleine: what?

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

Lairin: use units like the rest of the civilized world!!!!!

Kleine: you should just write

"suck it, trebek"

they'd be like "WOW SUBVERSIVE, GREAT REF, SHE'S IN"

Lairin: YES

I think they mean GPA?

or units

IT IS NOT CLEAR

Kleine: would infinity be an appropriate response?

i think it could work for all of them

because

you want to continue school

so, infinite units

Lairin: FOREVER

Kleine: EXACTEMENT

OH NORTON

HOW I MISS YOUR GIRTH

(that's gross)

((didn't realize that gross double entendre till it was too late))

Lairin: I just spat coffee onto myself

Man, Bitches love Norton.

The Weekend from Hell 2: Hellier

Hi friends!

Remember my last post, when I exhausted the topic of "fly-type things" and my slaughtering of them? WEEELLLLLLLLL, guess what? I had the honor of discovering what these fly-type things are. This is what they look like:

Accurate Portrayal

If you are stupid like me, you would simply have basked in the rays of winning a battle against evil nameless bugs and would have needed to wait until you got a tenting notice for your apartment to tell you that you did not win the battle against these mighty bugs. In fact, you lost. BIG TIME. Because those are fucking termites. And if you don't know about termites, apparently, they're bad and stuff. At least, that's the word on the street, and words on the street tend to be legit (example: "crack is whack"--well known words found on the street).

I stared at the notice for a good 10 minutes. Not totally sure how this was gonna work. I have my cat, Mimi, as I'm sure you all know since I mention her in every post. And the landlord was offering to put us up in a hotel that didn't allow animals (and, subsequently, happiness). So, Mimi and I packed our bags and drove south for the border (of LA county) to be with our BFF, Lairin Paris, in Redondo Beach.

Let's just say Mimi hates car rides about as much as I hate the Twilight Series. However, Mimi's hatred manifests itself differently than mine:

Why don't you just write a paper deconstructing the subject matter to appease yourself, Mimi?

As with all car rides, in which Mimi sits in the passenger seat, I try to calm her. I soothingly remind her that I love her and I won't let anything bad happen to her. In between shifting gears, I put my hand on her carrier and attempt to pet her through the plastic. I probably should be getting in a million car accidents when I drive with her, but miraculously I don't, Ceiling Cat is obviously looking out for me.

Interior of car doesn't look this awesome.

At a certain point, I just give up with the comforting attempts. This was a long drive down to Redondo Beach. And in between the breaths of each useless cry emanating from Mimi's little mouth, echoing in my head, I realized I should never have children. I think a dog is as far as I can go on the sole responsibility-dependent spectrum. I know I'm young or whatever, BUT HOLY CRAP, THE STRESS AND THE ANGER THAT RISES FROM IT.

Because this was the longest car ride that Mimi has been on (since she's been with me), she decided to go slightly (and by "slightly" I mean "totally") ape shit. Rather than simply continue on with the pleading meows--each one a kitten dagger in my heart (worse than regular daggers)--Mimi decided that this was the appropriate moment to reenact a scene from the illustrious film, Alien.

Cat Carrier= John Hurt's belly in film

Reference for you n00bs out there.

Now, I'm not sure who showed her this film (or why she would be a fan of it) but she was reenacting the shit out of it. It was an homage of sorts, which successfully scared at least one year off my life span.

I had decided, prior to our exodus to Redondo Beach, that on my way back home I would take Mimi to the veterinarian-- just to terrorize the bejesus out of her (and also because she had some rash-type stuff going on). So, the plan was stay with Lairin for a few days, drive back up on Saturday, go to the vet, then return home to my termite-free apartment. It became abundantly clear while at Lairin's place that Mimi wasn't suffering from benign rashes, but from fleas, exacerbating the probs. And I know what those megalomaniacal assholes look like and I was not pleased to see one practicing its dance moves on Mimi. Unlike the termite debacle, I knew that I could not win this battle on my own. I didn't have a cathartic smashing of fleas like I did with the termites, at least in that situation, I felt like I showed them who was boss by punching them in the face.

Naturally, I trick Lairin into coming to the vet with me using my tricksy ways. I was prepared for Mimi's antics in the car ride and decided to not care, letting Lairin bear that burden:

 

We go to the vet definitely looking like a lesbian couple with their cat (see: Zuzu and Sparks). This may not have been in our favor as we happened to sit next to a forty-ish-year-old man with an awesome dog. The man in question was not super attractive, but then he started to speak... with a Scottish accent. And all of a sudden, he was silver fox stud muffin. While talking to us about how his dog liked to lick feet, Lairin sent me this text:

 

But then he went away and we were able to focus on the issue at hand. The whole debacle turned into a vet bill bigger than how much I paid for Mimi in the first place. And I was informed that I needed to give her a special allergy, flea bath. I looked at Lairin with pleading eyes (my tricksy ways weapon of choice). And she had no way out, I had the sweet ride that would drive her home and I bribed her with food (sealed the deal). 

Upon our return to my apartment (still smelling of noxious fumes), the cat bathing commenced:

 

So, en sum, that weekend was off. da. chain. It also happened to correspond with my first year anniversary with Mimi as my cat and she was seriously thinking about breaking it off, but then really thought about the consequences of that, so she's sticking with me, but only after we "had a talk." [She really just meowed at me and my eyes glazed over and I just said "mmhmm" a bunch of times--seemed to placate her].

Here's her looking surprisingly serene after the bath:

...which scene from Alien should I reenact next?

Ramadan-a-ling

Today at work.

Coworker #1: Let's get lunch together! We haven't done that in a long time.
Coworker #2: I can't. I'm doing Ramadan.
Coworker #1: What is that?
Coworker #2: Hey Kleine! He doesn't know what Ramadan is!!!
Kleine: You don't know what Ramadan is? What's wrong with you?
Coworker #1: I'm sorry... I don't listen to hip hop.

Serious laughter ensued.

Updated to include conversation from later that day:
Kleine: Were you referencing the South Park movie earlier?
Coworker #1: Yeah, I was. Nice catch! I was just joking around... I totally know what Rosh Hashanah is.
Kleine: It's Ramadan!

Song of the CENTURY

Over the past weekend, Dodo made me watch this music video:



At the time, I just stared at the screen--wide-eyed--not really sure what to make of it. Once Monday rolled around, I decided I needed to watch it again. After watching it a second time, I felt it necessary to do some research, to understand what was going on. Let me tell you that this music video has snowballed into an obsession. I've watched it at least a dozen times. I can't stop laughing when I watch it and every time I do, I catch something new and more ridiculous about it.

So, please allow me to deconstruct this masterpiece.

Let's start with the basics.
Who: The video stars a young blogger/ model from Harajuku named Kyary Pamyu Pamyu (apparently also known as Carrie).
What: This is Kyary's first single called PONPONPON from her debut album entitled "Moshi Moshi Harajuku." This is produced by Time Warner Music Japan by some hot shot Japanese music artist. And if you want the lyrics, which are hysterical, you can find them at the bottom of this page.
Where: Harajuku. Which, for those who don't know, is a very fashionably transgressive part of Japan. It's a city where fashions get started and many designers look to the area for inspiration, as youths come out with different, albeit wacky, ideas for fashion and dress accordingly. Kyary was one of these youths and (from what I can tell) was a fashionista blogger.
When: This video came out about 2 weeks ago... so despite the seemingly weak graphics, THIS IS BRAND SPANKIN' NEW.
How: I'm not totally sure, but what I can tell you, is that this video is really not at all over-the-top for Harajuku. This is just how art is done, it's all pretty much fashion-based. Just cray cray for us.   
Why: Because the world was down on its knees, begging for it.

Now, let's get down to business.* In a probably vain attempt to make sense of this video, I will point some things out with visual aids.

We have two girls in the video. One dancing with pigtails (shall now be simply known as Pigtails), one with a pink face (Pink). My first theory is that Pink is somehow controlling what's going on with Pigtails... perhaps Pink is her brain causing these hallucinations? Or is just a manifestation of a child's mind (and by child, I mean, person tripping ballz)?

Evidence:

Birds: Flyin' out her mouf.

BAM: Birds comin' through the window.

Eyeballs: Rollin' out her mouf.

BOOM: She's hanging out with eyeballs!

Next theory: Pigtails represents the erratic and often changeable moods of children. Sometimes she's having a grand ole' time--making faces and dancing--other times she's taking herself a little too seriously with weird hand gestures (teenager perhaps?).

Evidence:

All surrious.

Wacky faces. What a crazy kid!

Oh shit. Time for serious bidness. You can tell by the hand--it looks serious.

Farting Art, happier times.

Here's an interesting combo: serious hand gesture, yet she's slyly picking her nose--what a jokester!

Srsly guyz. SRSLY.

Final Theory: Clearly inspired by the 90s... childhood of the generation now entering adulthood? People making this video grew up in the 90s? Childhood, adulthood, manifestation, monomania, discombobulation, and other academically-weighty words?

Evidence:

Mac and Cheese reigned supreme in the 90s. And you see that little box of Golden Grahams? WHO EATS THAT ANYMORE? (Answer: Nobody).

That skull is totally reminiscent of the designs on the coolest Pogs.

Holy shit! LISA FRANK.

Last, but not least, I need to list off what Pink is wearing on her head.

Nurse Barbie, Plastic Bird, Grapes, Strawberry, Banana

Bone, Bird Wing, Butterfly, as well as the above.

Plastic Panther, Giant Flower, along with above.

The one part of the video that I sincerely cannot even imagine what it "symbolizes" is this:

Clap for bread.

Other interpretations are more than welcome (as mine were utter and complete bullshit). LET'S DECONSTRUCT THIS TOGETHER. But, I think the best theory is that people are just batshit cray cray and like to experiment with psychedelic drugs and then make videos of what they see to share with humanity.

Regardless of what it all means, this song has made it onto my youtube work playlist.
Basically, I listen to it.
Daily.

*Note: Only cool people, after reading that sentence, would start singing the song from Mulan in their heads.

This is Love

Lairin and I often gchat. And by often, I mean, always. We are basically a married couple, but it's long distance. She's near the beach and I'm still in LA. Weekends are our only times together. Thus, we resort to gchat. We discuss the events of our day, even as they are happening.

Last night, I was telling Lairin of someone's disappointing behavior towards me. Her response:

I am...
not pleased.
knee caps
gonna get all broken up
in this joint. *

Now, THAT is poetry!

*Each line represents the content of each separate instant message.

Best Traffic Ever

So, in an earlier post Dodo mentioned the crazy shit that was going down this weekend. This sent many into a tizzy, fiendishly buying tickets to out of area places, or simply using this impending traffic delay as an excuse to squander all their money in Vegas. I anticipated being in a lockdown situation in my own apartment, which would probably involve me lounging in undie-roos with Mimi. However, yesterday morning, I decided to check out what the traffic situation was like using good ol' Google Maps. And here is what I found:

The magical powers of fear

So, I hazarded taking my car onto the freeway. And what I found were empty roads, now perhaps a Zombie Apocalypse happened to occur on this same weekend and that explains the eerily empty roads, but whatever the reason: the traffic has never been better!

Facebook Ads Strike Back: Return of the Weird Pictures

So, I must confess I have a Facebook. This is trufax. I went on a very high horse for a while and deleted my account, but I started to chafe riding on that high horse, so I came back down to the land of cretins and started up again. I like to think that my Facebook usage is totally healthy. It's a super private account and I am only friends with people I interact with. However, I often go through my Facebook friends every month or so and delete all the people I no longer consort with. It's a political move, I know, and I'm sure I seem like a total douchebag, but fact is: If I don't see you in real life or talk to you on a fairly regular basis, it just makes me feel like a stalker to view your status updates talking about you laying a deuce or WHATEVER it is that people use the status update for. Thus, you are eliminated.

But, enough about my personal, tumultuous relationship with Facebook. I know that the topic of how well the ads on Facebook know you has probably already been discussed. But, I often find that the photos that accompany said ads are quite absurd. Check out this one I delightfully stumbled upon the other day:

Here's the thing: I actually seriously do want to go to graduate school for English and for cereals want a grant to do so. HOWEVER, I find this advertisement mildly offensive if it is insinuating that all English major-y type women look like pixelated sorority bums. I will have you know that I am only slightly pixelated and look like a poor, wannabe hipster. Basically, get your facts straight Facebook. Yes, I do want to go to grad school for English (and the fact that you know this is disturbing), however, I do not want to do so at the expense of my personal, physical identity. I won't go full pixel for a grant. I WON'T.

Rabbits in France

Since being in Paris, there is a sign on the metro doors that always fascinates me when I see it:

As the image illustrates, there is a rabbit, wearing what can only be described as a nice set of yellow pajamas, without shoes, and getting its hands (paws?) caught in the door. Now, the purpose of this illustration is to alert passengers of the dangers of putting your hand in the door when the door is closing.

However, I find that the message and image don't totally coalesce. Honestly, I'm more concerned with the fact that there is a rabbit on the metro in the first place. Second of all, who gave this rabbit clothes and taught it how to walk? It looks like some sort of escape victim, as it was obviously in too much of a hurry to put on shoes, but somehow managed to have enough time to wear a matching outfit. It looks all discombobulated. I mean, getting its hand stuck in the doors of the metro is really the least of its problems.

French Tourists

I just got home from a day spent gallivanting about Paris (started at a sweet bakery on the Rue des Abbesses, went through the Tuileries, kept up a French conversation with a man by the mini Arc de Triomphe in front of the Louvre, got a free ticket from said man, waltzed in the Louvre for a bit, got Chinese food--super cheap in Paris, a little gelato, a metro ride, now I'm back).

An insane amount of time is spent simply trying to find where the eff you are going. Here's the deal about Paris, it's confusing as FUDGE. [Note: Fudge, for some reason, is a confusing concept to me, thus the metaphor works]. Unlike NYC, which is basically a gridlock and super easy to find your way around if you have a map, or even LA, which has major streets that sort of run parallel, Paris does not do this. No, no. Paris, decided to outdo every international city in what-the-fuckery and designed it after a snail. NO JOKE, PEOPLE: A SNAIL (ESCARGOT, if you will).

Here's a rudimentary image of the snail- Paris map comparison, found on the internet:

You see all those numbers? Those are the neighborhoods, known as arrondisements. So rather than have some sort of normal thing going on, they've got the 5th arrondisement sharing borders with the 4th and 6th (normal), as well as the 14th, 13th, 12th. WHAT? So, you'll be walking along, thinking you're super close to the 3rd, but then you stumble into the 12th and before you know it you're in the ban-lieue (which basically translates as the "boondocks").

And just so you get a little taste of how the streets run (not parallel or perpendicular), just a clusterfuck of streets, here's a picture:


It's as if they had some sort of sadistic spider (wearing a beret) design this absurd street layout.

But, I digress. This post is really supposed to be about an outlandish couple I saw on the metro on the way home. I don't even know where to begin. Unfortunately, my camera is broken/ I'm too lazy to figure out its problem, so I don't have direct evidence of this. It's a cherished memory.

Basically, a man and a woman, probably in their early 20s, come onto the metro. They, essentially, grope each other throughout the ride. The female has the following going on:

Female mullet, check! (Hers was a bit curlier). Socks with Birkenstocks, check! Unshaven legs, check! [As a feminist, I know it shouldn't bother me, BUT IT DOES].

Here's what the guy's bringing to the table:


A colossal unibrow, check! Fanny pack, check! An air of general creepiness that makes everyone within 20 feet suddenly get a shiver of uncomfortableness, check!

Here's the surprising part: THEY SPOKE FRENCH. ONLY FRENCH. So, they weren't American tourists, or even Dutch tourists, they were FRANCAIS. Now, their appearance was really just the cherry on top of the gross sundae. They were all over each other, which, in Paris, is normal bidness [I often see couples giving sweet little kisses over and over again, not making out, just kisses, caressing each other's faces and stuff--makes my heart swell with envy]. However, instead of giving each other sweet little kisses, they decided to saddle somewhere between how-13-year-olds-makeout and a wet-peck-on-the-lips. I kid you not when I say that every time they kissed, the girl was SURE to stick her tongue out BEFORE their lips met. Just straight tongue out. It was like a slobber pistol, ready for action. And the kiss wasn't prolonged or anything. It was just un petit bisou, except it made me want to simultaneously burst out laughing and spit up.

I couldn't help but stare. I know, it's wrong. But, I was just so fascinated that someone could seriously walk around thinking: "Oh yeah! This is totally how you kiss. You gotta make sure that your tongue grazes your lover's uvula before the lips actually meet. It's just the basic formula to a great kiss." And just as fascinating was the fact that the guy/ receiver of this tongue was TOTALLY INTO IT. Furthermore, their absurd outfits and the fact that they were clearly Francophone just added to the whole affair.

I like to think that they were performance artists because the whole thing was just too good to be true. They are just playing a joke on all the metro riders, upending all stereotypes of the French people as good and adept lovers.

Pain Pour Tout le Monde!

Sorry about the super lame title. I am in Paris right now, taking a poetry class no less. I'm also actively wearing berets and skinny mustaches with a baguette in each pocket. Kind of like this:

[according to this image, I also smell really bad]. Anywho, I have been eating copious amounts of bread. At least a baguette a day, so far. I literally had an entire baguette for lunch and I bought the closest thing to cheddar cheese and ate the two together. And you guys cannot give me shit for eating a cheddar-y type cheese because I happen to fucking love cheddar cheese. It is awesome. Furthermore, I'm not a huge fan of brie *gasp.* I'm more of an Italian cheese kinda girl, ya know with the mozzarellas, the burratas, the buffalo mozzarellas, the parmigiana, romano, more mozzarella, etc . SO WHATEVER. STOP JUDGING.

I'm slightly concerned about this new diet of only delicious bread. Don't get me wrong, it's awesome. Best thing ever. Especially when a baguette costs less than 1 euro, which in American dollars is slightly less than 20 bucks. [Note: I'm only exaggerating slightly]. But, at a certain point I will be in danger of returning to the Colonies looking like this:


But, I will probably be wearing black as a sad attempt at a slimming effect. Now while this is a fear for me, it's not a big enough one for me to stop eating fresh baguettes every day. It's worth the risk. I may be eating it with Fromage De Hollande:


rather than Camembert, but that is my prerogative, people! I do Paris my way, you do it yours.

I also will be eating PAIN CHOCOLAT all day as well. It literally means chocolate bread. So, I'm just adding chocolate to my diet of bread. Expanding my horizons and palette.

Procrastination Station

In an effort to avoid writing a paper on the Legend of Good Women by Chaucer, I am doing this post.

My cat, Mimi, whom you have met, likes to just crawl over my keyboard when I'm on the computer. I have been tempted many-a-time to just turn in a paper with Mimi's efforts all over it. Another thing she likes to do is sit on my chest when I'm on my computer, so it's impossible to type, but it's so cute that I can't move her:

[Note: this is mostly done in the morning when I am checking my email and haven't gotten out of bed].

Anyway, so the other day she decided to crawl on my keyboard and I was on the interwebs. Her typing opened up a new tab in Firefox, which offered help and this image:

Now, I know it's supposed to be a fox of sorts, but that to me is sexy cat nurse. Mimi knew what she was doing when pulling up that page.

And on that note, I'd like to share this delectable photo of Little Girl whom you've also met, as she just looks like a grade-A bitch and it's hilarious:
Now, unlike Mimi, she just doesn't give a fuck about that cat nurse.

Our Mom is Cuter than Your Mom

So, Zuzu, Dodo, and I (and our bro) still get holiday cards from our mom:
And, this is how she signs them:
[It says: "Dear Kleine Some bunny loves you Happy Easter From E. Bunny]
So, since we were kids, all mythical figures had terrible handwriting. My mom disguises her own handwriting, by writing out the messages with her left hand. I love so much that she still does this today. It's basically the cutest thing ever and you should be jealous.

Sweat. Sweat Everywhere.

So, I am an English major and decided (yes, DECIDED) to apply to the honors thesis program. The honor being--to write a thesis. I asked to do this, it was not forced, but of my own volition. Which, I sometimes need to remind myself when I'm up to my neck in books focusing on 16th century lady times.

There are 11 of us in the program and we all have to do a presentation. And the first round of presentations happened yesterday--naturally, I was the FIRST to present. AKA super scary times. I actually was a bit taken aback at my own nervousness. I usually pwn at presentations (and talking, in general). [Fun fact: I won the English Department's poorly-titled, "Oral Communications Award" TWICE in high school].

Thankfully, Dodo was there for moral support and provided copious amounts of enthusiastic head nods when I looked out into the audience. Now, once I hit the front of the room, my nervousness decided to take its form in PROFUSE SWEATING. I guess, it could have been worse, I could have had a shaky voice, stutters, just straight-up collapsed, or vomited on myself. And, let me tell you dear readers, the sweat floweth mostly from my arse, which I suppose has its perks. It would have been far more noticeable and embarrassing if I was sweating all over my face. But, I guess I never knew how much an ass could sweat in a not-hot environment. Literally, a drip went down my leg in the middle of the presentation. Luckily, I was wearing a skirt that went past my knees, so no one saw (I also distracted the audience with an impromptu nip-slip).

I, for sure, left the podium with pit stains, so I refrained from doing my victory dance, which was a personal disappointment, but also confirms my suspicions that deodorant is giant, fucking scam.

I know this post has no photos, so allow me to give you this one, which is totally unrelated and just displays my 7-year-old cat, Mimi, being Cutez McGee on my backpack:

Cats, In So Many Words

Zuzu, Dodo, and I grew up with a cat named "Little Girl." When I found her, at the tender age of 8, she weighed less than a pound and fit in your hand. She has since blossomed into a bodacious babe, so the name is more ironic than descriptive.

Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:

Now, Little Girl lives a lavish life with my mom. Because of the size of her body, she has trouble jumping up on beds (her space), but if attempt to help her up, she acts as if she doesn't really need the help. Point is, this cat has got some attitude--not an attitude that results in scratches or bites--just straight 'tude.

Anywho, I was home for approximately 3 seconds this past weekend as it is now my Spring Break. While home, I noticed a new tradition in the world of the big LG. My mom gives Little Girl treats before she goes to bed. On my first night, my mom handed the bag to me and told me to give her the treats in my room (at the other end of the hall). When I went into my room and shook the bag, I saw a sight I had never before seen--Little Girl running (and, by running, I mean trotting) down the hall with excitement, her large belly sweeping the floor as she went.

When telling Dodo, Zuzu, and Sparks of this event, they insisted I get video evidence of this. I was able to do this successfully on my last night. This is really only meant for those who know, and appreciate, the greatness of Little Girl.

A Shitstorm be Brewing

There's some pretty horrendous stuff going on around the blogosphere that pertains to USC. Basically, a numbnut in a frat wrote an email that was disgusting, racist, misogynistic, the whole 9 yards. Now, while the email itself is so upsetting (I felt like crying when I first read it), the response has doubled the effect. It's atrocious, to say the least.

But, I really do not want to do a post on this holy-sweet-mother-of-god-what-is-wrong-with-humanity situation.

What I can tell you is that Lairin Paris and I are perpetually in a mental fetal position as we are writing our theses. [And by writing, what I really mean is chicken-scratching out pages of complete nonsense].

Also, about a week ago, a female coworker rubbed my belly--insinuating that I was pregnant. Upon realizing her mistake, she simply said, "Oh...I guess you've been eating too much pizza." WRONG. I've been eating copious amounts of break-and-bake cookies. That's what my thesis wants and that's what my thesis gets.

So, in sum, I'm not in a happy place and to top it all off, this happened, which spurned this conversation between me and Lairin Paris:

Calling All Haters-of-"Bitches"

I am stopping in the middle of researching for my thesis to make the following announcement. I will no longer defend Kanye West to his many detractors. I forsake him completely. My love for him spontaneously combusted when Lairin Paris showed me this monstrosity:


Yes, it is real. I verified it several times over because I couldn't believe it.

Now, let me, just for a second, elaborate on my former love for Kanye. I can rap most of his songs offhand. I particularly enjoy busting out when intoxicated and impressing strangers with my Kanye rapping skills. Beyond loving his music and what he does in the industry, I defended him personally. Because I believed that every outburst he had was an outburst that spoke the truth and just displayed his passion. I defended you, Kanye West. I DEFENDED YOU TO THE WORLD.

And now this...

OK, so I think we all know about the shit show going on right now in the government, what with the Planned Parenthood funding cuts, the whole rape victims being renamed "accusers," and other just really shitty things. Now, in order to stay sane in all of this, I have decided to view every man that feels like he has a right to talk about abortions as quaint. It is just so fucking endearing to hear a guy, who has no idea what it means to be a lady, with lady bits, and the lady times, to blather on about abortion and rape, as if he knows.

I just don't know how people are getting away with saying the shit that they are saying. I don't know how Kanye West, a person I used to think was awesome, thought that that is an OK or appropriate statement to make. Putting aside the fact that it's completely inaccurate, it just shows how low of an opinion people continue to have of women. The very notion that a woman would get herself pregnant, to ultimately get an abortion, as a way to get money from a man is absurd. AB-FUCKING-SURD. Furthermore, the idea that a woman would accuse a guy of rape just for shits and giggles is equally absurd.

To top this all off, I particularly love when women lambast feminism as unnecessary and purely for the hating of men. Now, let's get this straight. I generally love the men-folk. They do some great things and provide the sexy times for us straight ladies. But, I do abhor certain individuals for their ignorance and this abhorrence does not discriminate based on gender, race, or what-have-yous. There have been plenty of lady folks [video of The Daily Show, they show a clip of House Repubs wanting to defund Planned Parenthood--most of whom are women] who have shown themselves during this turbulent time, claiming to be "pro-lifers," but are actually just giant a-holes. They are all around and have made a significant appearance in the House Republicans.

I guess I'm pretty pissed about a lot of things. But during all of this hoo-haa, I had a vain hope that my love for Kanye would stay strong... at least, I had that to turn to. But alas, I've lost that too. Now, I will return to my thesis research, which pretty much focuses on how people hated on women in the 16th century... good to know that the times have changed. Except, not really.

Everybody Calm Down

I am procrastinating on a paper due on Wednesday (it's Monday night). Lairin Paris is there to lift me up when I am down via gchats:
And... that's how second semester senior year is, except with more worrying and cradled fetal positions.

In Old Man News

Lairin Paris and I are editors for our college's literary magazine. [We're big deals... that's what I'm trying to say]. Anywho, each semester, we welcome a few newbs to the staff and go out to dinner at a delicate place called Phillipe's in Chinatown.

Whilst sitting there with our entourage of literature nerds, this gentleman strolls in:

Now, let's review. He's got that light on his head (not in use when inside), a pin that says "God is Good," and a flashing-red-light-necklace of sorts.

AKA the lethal combination of a straight up BADASS.

That's So Gay

At work, there is a colleague of mine who happens to be gay. Over the past Summer, I worked with him pretty closely and we had some great times. Eventually, he insisted on calling me his "fag hag," which I guess I'm OK with.

The other day, I was catching up with him and this happened:
Me: You know, I didn't know you were gay for a long time.
Coworker: Neither did I!

Perfect response to such a stupid statement.

Photobombing Pastimes

I'm a pretty big fan of photobombing. Although, I don't think I've done it successfully in a very long time. It really was a part of my life back when I was 17, 18. I was recently looking through some photos, many of which I bombed. And... stumbled across this classic:


I gotta get back in the photobombing game.