Paper Cutastrophe

I have, currently, what might be considered a world-record-breaking-deep paper cut.

It happened this afternoon when I unzipped my backpack. The fluid motion of my hand somehow perfectly sliced right over the stack of apparently very crisp papers too close to the mouth of my zipper (I should have known better). Of course, I immediately went into the five stages of grief:

Pushing the flaps of skin together in denial, hoping it hadn't happened; anger at myself, my backpack and my teacher who had just given me all those papers; bargaining with God; depression at the thought of countless paper cuts I have yet to suffer before the end of my life,
And finally, acceptance that I was just going to have to continue typing with a wad of toilet paper over my middle finger making all my e's and d's hybrid we's and ds's.

But there is a sixth, unpublished stage in which you just don't really get after death of a loved one, diagnosis of cancer. The sixth stage of grief associated with a paper cut is of course post-traumatic shock. Reaching into my backpack since has been like September 12 on Times Square. Not only that, but every time my cut hurts, I have Nam flashbacks of how it happened, and there is just something inhumane about the act of a paper cut... let alone reliving it over and over.

Next time God, how about I stick my hand in a knife drawer and get some kind of gnarly, jagged
gash on my finger instead. At least then I'd have a cool scar and I wouldn't be afraid of my backpack anymore.

And we're back to step three.

Maybe she's born with it... Maybe it's teen pregnancy

So I have a theory.

These beauties, Shania Twain, Faith Hill, and my friend Shauna are all adopted. Not only are they adopted, but they were all teen pregnancies. Now why are they so superiorly attractive? Let's look at the facts.

Fact: The only thing that matters in high school is looks and status
Fact: Personalities aren't exactly developed until at least college and so looks are really the only thing anyone is going after.
Fact: The only people having sex in high school are the good-looking ones seeking anyone who may make them appear better looking or more popular for being associated with said boyfriend/girlfriend.
*inconsequent* Fact: Most of these teen babies have great voices for singing country which is really just another commentary on home-grown country chitlin' without accessible contraceptives.

THEREFORE: The teen babies are the superior, better-looking breed. Hitler had it all WRONG... when he was trying to develop the superior race, he didn't need to bother with all that complicated genocide. He just needed to promote high school sex, right?

Caveat: Any hasty generalization I have made in this post is allowed because I have a gorgeous teen-baby nephew... and I have a black cousin.

Classertations

I thought I'd class up the header a bit for the holidays. Consider it my Christmas gift to the blogging world.

You're welcome.

St. Crispin's Day in the Kitchen

Today I was making dinner (making chicken salad sandwiches from the store) with my roommate Mary in the kitchen, lamenting-as always-about graduation. I told her how I was going to miss doing work for myself: writing my own papers, reviewing my work, working on projects that would have my name on it... you know... all the selfish qualms that come with being a 22-year-old student with no family.

So, to put things in perspective Mary gave me this gem of insight, a "Band of Brothers" speech if you will:

"No. You're actually going to be making money for the work you do. Instead of coming home and wondering whether to make yourself chicken salad or Ramen; you're going to take yourself out to dinner! You're not going to live with a roommate who sticks her shoes under the fridge, (another blog for another time) you're going to live with maybe one other girl. And you can have a man in your bed every night if you damn well please!"

Now if that doesn't motivate me to find a good career, I don't know what will.

Thanks Mary

Caveat: On account of my impeccable memory for detail and the fact that I wrote every word of this down right after she said it means that it's verbatim and completely unrehearsed. The best always are.

You're Brilliant. Now Stop Talking.

This afternoon I was in a class and was lucky enough to be sitting next to a professor (whom I adore) because he was listening in on our class for the day.

At one point in the lecture, he leaned over and shared a joke with me. Panic! I was so stoked that he was speaking, much less wasting a joke on me that I forgot to listen. Worsened by the dark room and quiet audience, there was no way I was going to kill whatever special moment he had just created between us by asking him to repeat himself.

So, fight or flight kicked in and I instinctively mimicked his exact expression and mumbled something back with the same animation he had used. I didn't even use words. I literally mumbled sounds. His reaction? He genuinely laughed, nodded, and turned back in his seat, satisfied with whatever he thought I had said.

Then I realized something that I think I probably already knew, but am just now articulating. We are all so insanely in love with ourselves that we sort of just hear what we expect or want to hear unless the person is loud enough to sway our egos otherwise; which can only lead me to one conclusion: all this conversation that we have been having with people is A. just a conversation we have really had with ourselves and B. completely unnecessary.

So what happens now? I propose that we really only need to get one good impression of any person. After that, we can all just mumble to each other, and the recipient can just assume that it was probably intelligent, stupid, embarrassing, inappropriate, etc. anyway. Not only can we do this, but we pretty much do it anyway.

So. If there is one thing that anyone who may ever read this should remember about me it's that mmnb bhmmb bumnbh hhm bbbmbnh.

Ellie Mae Johnson: Immortalized

My friend Wes Joseph's dog died a couple of weeks ago. To console him I told him that legends never die. See, uplifting words are just used as substitutes for anything substantial. This is why when a waitress gets told she did a great job, she will most likely not get a great tip. People think that a nice comment is worth more than money. So do I. So does Wes. It's why I think he is calling my bluff and has now challenged my words of comfort by requesting a blog to tell her story. It's why I am here to prove that I am a better friend to Wes than he is to me. Once and for all, I will overcome 'the Disneyland incident'.

Ellie Mae Johnson, (no not Joseph because the dog kennel, like most people, cannot accept a first name as a last name, and christened her Johnson instead) was born on 4/20/99. Most likely a reincarnation of a Columbine shooter, except this time she came back with a heart that was TOO big, leading to her untimely death of 10/7/08. She is survived by her mother Sophie and her mate Cleo. She enjoyed walking until about a year and a half ago.

Ellie could not only sit, roll over and play dead, but "sitting pretty" was her expertise. She would sit pretty before every treat.

Not a masculine dog, not an intimidating dog, definitely not a hunting dog, but a loved dog nonetheless. There was no other dog more liked by or like his father Wes Joseph.

Legends never die Ellie. I have told your story.

The Results Are IN:

We've been waiting to hear who won the political debate and finally Fox and CNN have delivered unbiased, accurate results. (These percentages are actual results found on the Web sites).

CNN: Obama won 49% to 43%

FoxNews: McCain won 80% to 14% and 6% hadn't decided.

Fox went on to say that Obama didn't even show up to the debate, and in the middle of McCain's speech, God came down and delivered Osama Bin Laden to his arms... and then gave McCain back his full range of motion. It was an American miracle.