Don't get any crazy on you!

Weird things I have said or done lately:

1. To the taxi driver, after giving my address: "Apartment number two." What??? He is not going to drive me upstairs.
2. To a guy in my creative writing class regarding a scene in his story where he is mean to his ex-girlfriend: "That part made me want to punch you." (Class laughs nervously, I hastily scribble a disclaimer on my critique that I do not condone physical violence.)
3. On the near-silent subway, I start making up a joke to myself and accidentally burst out laughing, causing everyone sitting around me to scoot away a few inches. To be fair, it was a pretty good joke.
4. I decide to go to the school library, which is on the third floor. Although you're supposed to take the stairs to floors 2 and 3, I'm feeling lazy and nobody else is around so I head to the elevator. Before I push the button for my floor, a professor gets on with me and says "Six, please." I push it, and then hesitate for too long, causing her to say, "Oh good, we're going to the same floor. That almost never happens." So I smile and take the elevator with her to the sixth floor and then walk down the stairs to the third floor. Ridiculous.

What I Want To Be If I Grow Up

Sometimes it seems like the people I go to school with came out of the womb knowing what career they want to pursue. They just popped right out with cigarettes in their mouths clutching video cameras or microphones or screenplays or makeup brushes. And here I am, in my junior year, the year where I'm supposed to be getting internships and networking with professionals and building a portfolio, and I just don't know.

It seems like I come up with a new idea every two seconds. Career paths that I've considered in the last few months include humor writer, professional blogger, graphic designer, memoir author, copyeditor, professor of literature, travel writer, book editor, career counselor (the irony is not lost on me!), hostel-worker in buenos aires, magazine founder and editor, literary critic, interior decorator, diamond appraiser, handyman, museum curator, web designer, painter, children's author. All in the last few months!

What I most like to do is learn. I love school and wish that I had the money to just keep taking class after class. I want to be proficient in all the Adobe software, I want to learn to take good photos and learn about lighting, I want to learn Spanish and French and Mandarin and Dutch and more, I want to read everything. I think the problem is that I don't really want to do anything, I just want to know, because there's no chance of judgment or criticism attached to knowing and besides, it's more fun anyway.

I will throw an avocado at you next time.

To The Mean, Mean Old Man Who Works at Stop & Shop And Supervises, Nay, Hovers About The Self-Checkout Aisles With Totally Unnecessary Fervor,

Nobody is in line behind me. Stop shouting out instructions. Stop angrily bagging my groceries. I was going to bag them myself, but you didn't give me the chance, and now I'm left with the bitter aftertaste of your hateful scowl. Let me scroll through the produce menu until I find the avocado that best resembles the actual avocado I have in front of me. Don't rush me. I am in the self-checkout aisle because I don't want cranky bastards like you interfering with my shopping experience. I hate so much about the things you choose to be.

Love,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Student Who Only Patrons The Store You Work At Because It's Right Across The Street And My Feet Hurt And Dammit I Want To Eat Dinner Before The Premiere Of The Office Starts.

Get your coffee at this hidden gem!

I was walking to the gym (I joined a gym!) down Harvard street when I spotted a cute little cafe. There were sofas and hipster artwork on the walls, and I wondered if this was one of Boston's secret spots, tucked away just a few blocks from my apartment. Then I looked up...AND IT WAS STARBUCKS!

What a mind fuck!

Scribbles.

Fact: In Argentina, as well as many other countries, it is considered rude to eat while taking public transportation. After watching a man on the T shove cracker after cracker into his greedy maw, I think I now understand why.

Fact: If you stay up two hours past your intended bedtime watching funny condom commercials on YouTube, you may fall asleep with a nagging guilt that maybe you are not spending your time wisely. Especially if you'd already seen half the videos the last time you did this.

Fact (my, this is a tiresome format): I rode the T all the way from Coolidge Corner to Boylston without hearing anybody speak English once. Who needs to travel when you live in one of the world's greatest cultural nexuses? It is good to be back, people.

This is even putting ME to sleep.

I was going to write another anecdote about my dental problems, about how halibut is now on my careful-don't-eat-that-or-you'll-be-tasting-it-for-a-week list. But then I thought, wow, is this really my life? Is my existance so dull that I have nothing better to write about than what's been stuck in my teeth lately? FOR THREE POSTS IN A ROW?

Yes.

Except, did I tell you about the wedgie I picked last week? Or that time I thought I was going to sneeze, but then I didn't? These are the untold stories of America.

I have jury duty next week, and I'm going to go all 12 Angry Men on the State of Alaska faster than you can say racial bigotry! Or at least faster than you can say "Shit, we shot the wrong grizzly bear!" Keep your fingers crossed that I get something more exciting than a DUI case. Maybe I will decide Ted Stevens' fate! Wait, that's not being tried in Alaska. Dammit. I was already starting to feel drunk with power.

The doctor made me get a pap smear yesterday, which was awful, but I realized that, phonetically, I really like the word "cervix." Cervix. Cervix! It's a very strong, masculine word when you seperate it from its vaginal connotations. I think if I were queen in a land that didn't speak English, I would name my son Cervix. It's very regal. Cervix Walls. Again, this doesn't work very well in English.

Well, it's becoming painfully clear that I have nothing to say, so I think I'm going to go ahead and stop writing.

Holey molar.

What everyone neglected to tell me is that after you get your wisdom teeth out, there are little holes in your gums. Holes in which tiny pieces of sushi can lodge themselves and rot for half a week and make your mouth taste and smell like a tiny corpse is decaying next to your molar. It was honestly like having a mini septic tank constantly leaking into my mouth. As someone who is very meticulous about hygiene and always smells fresh and clean, this was completely unacceptable. I did everything I could: I rinsed and rinsed like a crazy person, I poured hydrogen peroxide down my throat, I drank arsenic - nothing helped. So finally the oral surgery office gave me a squirty syringe thing so that I could really clean things out, and I egregiously abused it and let my OCD get the best of me, rinsing at least 50 times. So now I no longer have a horrible tasting mouth but instead have a constant, debilitating toothache that is almost certainly a direct result of my violent syringe misuse. This is more fun than I know what to do with.

Belly full o' pills.

I got my wisdom teeth out on Friday and have been pretty much useless ever since. The recovery process is taking a lot longer than I anticipated, which means I'm missing a few days of work, oh drat.

There are definitely pros and cons to this surgery thingy. One of the cons is that I can't really organize my thoughts in a more complex manner than This or That, so for my final presentation I have prepared TWO LISTS to share with the rest of the class: The Bad Things About Getting Oral Surgery and The Good Things About Getting Oral Surgery.

The Bad
1. I am so, so tired of applesauce.
2. The horrible pain. I made the mistake of sleeping in my bed the other night, which hardly keeps my head elevated, and I woke up completely disoriented and in the most pain I've ever felt. I don't know if any of you has ever fallen asleep while in terrible pain and not realized it, but it is the worst. I was having lots of stressful nightmares because I knew something was wrong but I just couldn't wake up. When I finally did, it took me about half an hour to transition from "I hurt so much I'm going to throw up" to "Oh hey, I should probably get up and take some drugs or get some ice or, you know, DO something about this."
3. Guess what kind of bowel movements you have on an irregular, liquid diet? Hint: I already gave you two of the words.
4. Having to sleep sitting up.
5. Living in a perpetual sweaty fatigue.

The Good
1. Less bone weight to haul around!
2. I am privileged to live in a situation where this is a common, affordable procedure. At least this is what I repeated to myself so that I wouldn't scratch the doctor's face off as he brought the IV needle closer and closer and closer.
3. The last thing I saw before they put me under was a moose walking by the window. Only in Alaska, folks!
4. The drugs, oh, the drugs! The last few days I've been on something that makes me feel warm and fuzzy and like I'm floating, except that it only lasts for two hours and I can only take the pills every four hours. My mom called the doctor and explained this mathematical error and so they switched me to Vicodin. And I know that anyone out there who has ever watched House has secretly hoped to be prescribed Vicodin at some point. I like to toss those babies up in the air and catch them in my mouth like popcorn as I limp around from room to room and draw on my white board and make up clever medical metaphors and sexually harass everyone around me. It's not lupus, people!
5. My friends and family will do everything for me. I am planted in a chair, yelling out requests: "Mooom! Will you put in the next Friends disc?" "Will!! Can I have some Spongebob Mac and Cheese?" Curiously, nobody has come to visit today.

Also, I finally got fed up with my depressing, minimalist blog layout, so I've decided to go green. Haha, get it? Like the environmental conservation movement, except I'm just changing the color settings on my rarely-updated blog while hunched over my desk in a drug-induced haze! You'd be laughing harder if your vision were blurred like mine.

¡Qué lástima!

Okay okay, enough whining. I'm a writer, I'm not a writer, chicken or fish, WHATEVER.

So I went to Buenos Aires for a couple weeks. And at first I really, really hated it. Loathed it. It was pouring and gloomy when I arrived at 7 in the morning, and I got a bad exchange rate when I traded in my money at the airport, and then I got ripped off by the taxi driver who drove me to my hostel even though I read approximately 400 pieces of literature before leaving on How Not To Get Ripped Off By Taxi Drivers (Rachel!!). I had an awkward exchange with the hostel front desk guy, who showed me to my bed, which was on the top bunk (dammit). So I hoisted myself into bed and went to sleep for a year. I kept waking up and checking my watch but no matter how ridiculously late it got I kept saying not yet not yet I can't face all this yet.

I am not a seasoned traveler. Kasteel Well was awesome, but for the most part, it was not traveling. I still had my own bite-sized American community and had other people to fall back on. My Eurail pass was set up by Emerson and most of the trips I took were planned by someone else. The closest I got to traveling was when I went to Belgium by myself for the weekend, and even then...that was BELGIUM, people. Just one big merry-go-round of waffels and chocolates and beaming children and Flemish primatives.

So, going into this trip I honestly didn't know whether I like to travel or if I just like to take vacations. One thing I've noticed about myself when I go places - and it is so, so frustrating and I wish I could stop doing it - is that it's always about me. How will this trip make me grow, what will I learn about myself, how will I feel, how will I change, etc etc etc. And of course I want to grow and change and learn but why can't I just sneak into a culture and be? I get so concerned with myself that I don't even see anything. I'll walk for fifteen blocks and not remember anything I passed on the way. Maybe it's because I wasn't there for very long but I feel like I hardly saw Buenos Aires at all, and I suspect it was because I was too busy being embarrassed and frustrated by my half-dozen Spanish catchphrases that I would desperately spit out before sullenly resorting to lo siento, pero no entiendo, no hablo castellano. It's all me me me and I don't look the part and I don't speak the part and I'm so foreign. And I've always been choked by that awful voice in my head hissing what will they think? but as soon as I got to Buenos Aires it began screaming and waving its arms, saying Stop, you're not doing it right, just stay in bed where you can't mess things up.

So for awhile, I did, and then I got over it and shyly shuffled into the city, and I ate great food and bought great stuff and saw great things but it was still a very guide-book trip and at no point did I just close my eyes and fall backwards into the arms of the city.

So when people ask me, "How was Buenos Aires?" I don't know what to tell them except that it was hard.

And that I'll go back.

"I'm a Writing and Publishing major...crisis."

Every day I am less convinced that I'm a writer.

For one, I don't like to write. I put it off and put it off and only do it if I have to or if I've convinced myself that I have to. I don't write for fun and I have three journals in my room right now that are about a quarter full, having been abandoned after I got fed up with the content: too whiny, too childish, too mundane, too ordinary. I constantly buy journals, thinking this time, I will write beautiful things and perfectly capture into words what my life is right now, so that someday, years from now, I can look back and say, Ah, yes! That was me. But it isn't me, it's me trying to be what I think me is, and it's all very clumsy and poorly disguised and a bad skit.

Furthermore, I have more and more trouble putting my thoughts into words, and shouldn't that be second nature to a writer? I used to think so, and it used to be so simple and I never understood people who couldn't write - just write what you think, I would say. But now I arrange words in my head and see perfect, flowing, beautiful language and when I go to put it into print it all topples and I forget and whatever I was trying to say disappears with a shrug and I sigh and put my pen down.

And worst of all I don't know what to write. Even if this is just a phase and I really CAN write, it doesn't matter because I have nothing to say. I'm getting tired of my jokey-joke Hey'dja-ever-notice, What's-the-deal-with observative writing. Sometimes I don't want to be biting or humorous or satirical - sometimes I want to describe a thought or a feeling in such a way that it will choke your swallow and make your throat burn and your eyes water. I want to make all the air go out of your lungs and make you wait, wait, until my next sentence fills them back up again. And I can't, because all my words, if there are any at all, get trapped in my teeth and in my fingernails and stay in me and make me swell until I feel I might burst.

A girl in my hostel in Buenos Aires asked me what I was studying at school. When I told her writing, she replied, "Oh, that is such a wonderful gift to have."

Wouldn't it be, though?

Food.

I obsess about food. I'm constantly fretting about whether my whole grain pasta is going to give me colon cancer or if that Caramel Macchiato I had last month is going to turn me into a diabetic.

I gave up red meat over a year ago in an attempt to micro-manage my diet. One too many people told me, hey, don't eat that meat, and I was like, yeah alright, let's give it a go. I think I kept with it because it felt good to have some control in my life. No matter what happened, I had given up red meat! Wow! Super job!

It wasn't hard, because I am not the biggest meat fan. The only time I've really craved red meat in the last year was when I watched Iron Man and when Robert Downey Jr. was like "I really want a cheeseburger," and I was like, "Me too, Robert Downey Jr. Me too."

I eat chicken sometimes because it's convenient, and I eat fish because I'm Alaskan. These foods notwithstanding, I am astonished at how unhealthily you can eat and still be vegetarian. I once heard someone say that it's virtually impossible to get fat on a vegetarian diet. What?? Put down those French fries. Hand over that Oreo McFlurry. I can attest that a vegetarian diet can be far unhealthier than an omnivore's. Just because you aren't eating bacon strips and burgers doesn't mean your diet is inherently healthy. It just means it's meat-free. Careful up on that pedestal, preachy vegetarian! It is a teetering pile of Cheez-Its and Oatmeal Cream Pies and Skittles.

I've impulsively bought several books that claim to have the answer to healthy eating and they all basically say the same thing: the only way for me to avoid dying a slow, bloated, obese death at the age of 45 is to eat vegan.

Well, shit.

You know what else they said? No gluten, no sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine.

I can give up meat. I can give up caffeine. I can give up artificial sweeteners. I could even give up alcohol, although after reading these books I really just wanted to toss one back.

But gluten? And dairy? Why, horrible book authors, why do you want my bread and cheese? The food staples of Western society? Is my PB&J really that deadly? Is that string cheese really going to climb down my throat and grab onto my arteries and hold a bake sale to raise funds for the Devil's traveling soccer team?

Yes, they replied.

So yesterday, I decided to go on a fruit and vegetable fast. I did one last year and I remember feeling great about it. I think I may have some seriously distorted memories.

I made it until about noon today when I just wanted to murder anyone eating anything. I just want a granola bar, I told myself. No no no, said the little health gurus in my head. That granola bar has oats and honey in it. Bad!

Then I felt guilty for even thinking about eating a granola bar. That lasted for about 30 seconds when suddenly I realized, hey, what the hell, this is so totally beyond fucked up!

I had a revelation, as those with revelations say. I was completely miserable on my deprivation diet. Sure, those authors can feed me some bullshit about how my body is getting used to being healthy and the toxins are leaving my body, but I think I just felt sick because I hadn't eaten nearly enough.

The time in my life when I felt most healthy was last semester, when my roommate and I began eating healthily and working out every day. I was still eating dairy and gluten and, on occasion, chicken and fish. I still ate "unhealthy" foods once in awhile, as a treat. But mostly I just ate smart and not too often. My energy levels and mood soared, and eventually I just didn't think about food that much. I naturally made healthy decisions because that's what I craved. I felt sick if I over-ate, so I didn't. Pretty cut and dry, whatever that means.

But this, this obsessing over avoiding specific foods is just as destructive as emotional binging. It's all about focusing my energy towards food, instead of what's really bothering me, like feeling unprepared for my upcoming trip to Argentina, or my fear that I will never be able to hold a job because office life depresses me so much, or my overwhelming terror that I am in the wrong major and it is too late and I will never be qualified to do what I really want to do, whatever that is. These are real problems that can't be solved by picking the bacon bits off my salad or switching to soy milk. And I think, after two years since I gained 20 pounds before college and began my obsession with food, I have finally realized that.

So I marched down to the vending machine and stuck a weirdo dollar coin I got in Oregon in the machine. It didn't like my James Monroe blood money, so I traded it in for quarters. And then, THEN, at last, I had my granola bar.

Indulgence never tasted so crunchy.

The first number could be called "I've Got a Bucket (It's Tied To My Leg)"

The same man at Au Bon Pain has crashed into me with his daughter's stroller almost every day this week. She doesn't actually ride in it, and they always plow through the narrow exit instead of the wide entrance. He talks to other people through her: "Say 'excuse me'!'" and they have those loud parent-child conversations that we all have to listen to ("DO YOU WANT THE GREEN APPLE OR THE RED APPLE?").

The other day I walked through the intersection I cross every day on my way to class, and everyone was looking up into the sky at these big construction cranes.* It was very puzzling, because those cranes have been there for two weeks, but this time they inspired ominous staring. I looked, because that kind of thing is contagious, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. What's going on? Is someone going to be hanged? Let me know.

*Sidenote: these cranes are really suspicious because they are taller than all of the surrounding buildings, yet the ongoing construction is at ground-level. Were these the only cranes available at the crane-renting store? Is April a hot month for cranes? It looks really awkward, like when you have a tiny drink and a big slurpee straw. Well, more like when you eat soup with a shovel.

It's window-washing week, which means that I am more paranoid than usual of somebody falling off a building and landing on me. I look crazy, walking down the street with my head angled straight up and going out of my way to not walk directly under any window-washers. They drop to the ground in their little harnesses out of nowhere and it is both terrifying and strangely theatrical, and I half expect them to break out into song. If anybody wants to write a musical on window-washers, come talk to me, because I now have some great choreography ideas.

Better here than the trash can, maybe.

So a few weeks ago I wrote an article for my magazine writing class. I was pretty geeked about it and handed in that sucker in high spirits. One week later I got it back, and whoo-boy. The only comment I got back from my teacher that vaguely danced around positive was, "I get that this is supposed to be funny, but..." Basically, she hated it, didn't understand why I wrote it, and told me that I could rewrite it all I wanted but if I turned in that article for my final she could not give me anything close to a good grade. She could have saved herself a lot of writing and just given it back to me with a big poop stain in the middle and the message would have been the same.

The final is due tomorrow, so I am in Starbucks writing a whole new article. However, I think that the original is pretty damn good, especially if you've ever worked at a restaurant (I haven't, but it's okay because I am a genius). It's a first draft, but it's good. Unfortunately, there is nothing more I can do with it. I can't market it anywhere (sadly there is no "Restaurant Servers' Digest") and I'm not going to rewrite it. So, I'm going to retire it here, for all of you (all 2 of you or however many people read this) to enjoy. I've cut out the intro and the conclusion because they are admittedly bad. Here it is! Enjoy it! Or leave comments like, "Why would I want to read this?" and "I don't get this," and "When I read this, I am like, what???" (Actual things my professor said about it in class.) READY? GO!

5 Ways To Annoy Your Restaurant Server

1. Make Your Problems Your Server’s Problems. Did your dog pee on the sofa last week? Your son failed his drug test? Sounds like reason enough to get snappy with the waiter. Did the kitchen forget to take the basil out of your tomato basil pasta? Cut Julietta’s tip in half. Do your best to complain about things your server can’t change: the economy, your favorite team’s losing season, your marriage. Is your job frustrating and unrewarding? Make your server’s more so. Remember, if you’ve had a bad day, your server should, too.

2. Demand More Service Than You Intend To Pay For. Get really fussy about how you want that $3.00 hoagie prepared. Ask for as many samples as you can get away with, then order a garden salad. Send food back to the kitchen for unclear reasons, and then decide you’re not actually hungry, after all. Carl at the downtown diner is making $2.70 an hour, and thanks to you, he’s going to work for it.

3. Come With A Huge Group. This is key, but it takes a team effort. Have your group trickle in slowly, but make the server wait until everyone is present to take orders. That’s your way of saying, hey buddy, we’re going to be here awhile. When everyone does arrive, ask for separate checks. If this isn’t possible, ensure that nobody covers the tip. After the server takes your orders and walks away, change seats. Get audibly upset when he mixes up your dishes. You’ve got to keep him guessing! After you’ve paid the bill, sit around and visit for a while. That table is your living room.

4. Turn Your Server Into Your Pet Monkey. Seize any opportunity to entertain your party at your server’s expense. Force her to passively interact with you with phrases like, “I’m sure Katie here can’t tell it’s a toupee, Bob,” or “You’re rooting for the Broncos tomorrow, aren’t you, honey? That’s right.” Make passes at her and throw in a sexist comment now and then. If your server is male, assume he is the manservant you never had. Demand service constantly and steal his time from other tables. As far as you are concerned, this is a monogamous relationship. Your table is the only one in the restaurant.

5. Bring A Child. This trick is so simple, yet so often overlooked. Don’t underestimate the effectiveness of an unruly brat. If you don’t have your own kids, borrow one or four from a friend. As soon as you’re seated, forget you brought any children and let them roam the restaurant and crawl under the tables. Teach them to bite if they don’t already know how. Remember you brought kids long enough to demand that little Timmy have a green crayon. Not blue, but green – and just forget about red. If those rambunctious little tykes feel at all inclined to sit down for one minute, use this time to train them to spill their drinks when the server is present. Why clean it up yourself when you can guilt someone else into doing it? Lastly, if all else fails, remember that nothing induces a headache faster than a screamer.

SO THAT'S IT. That's the bag of crap I left burning on my professor's doorstep. I hope it made you cry and wring your hands in confusion. WHATEVER, COLLEGE. I'll give you the money, and you'll give me the degree, and we'll both back away slowly.

Mexico was there, too, but I won't say where.

I've been having very vivid dreams the last couple of weeks. Let's recount them.

1. I decide to get a map of the United States tattooed on my stomach, with the states filled in with either red or blue, representing the results of the 2008 election. Sorry, I didn't have time to count, so I don't know who wins. Interestingly, Alaska is nowhere to be found.

2. I babysit Britney Spears, who thinks she is at her birthday party. She is strangely emaciated and we take pictures together.

3. I go to a Jimmy Eat World concert that is being held in a small room of a church. I get really excited and declare that I can't wait to see them in Boston. This dream is kind of boringly literal.

4. I party really hard the morning I'm supposed to leave for Mexico and miss my flight. This one is kinda lame because it proves that I worry about everything, even vacation.

5. My brother teases me until I'm so frustrated that I scream into a pillow. This one woke me up in a sweat.

More to come! The apple cider vinegar I've been drinking has the curious side effect of wacky dreams. Maybe I'll start having prophetic ones soon.

Some thoughtful tips.

1. Watch Britney Spears' new music video.

2. Don't cut me in line, you rotten old man.

Follow these simple rules and you will have a great day.

Everyone's a crack whore in my eyes.

Well, I meant to quit, but I've been drawn back to this whole blog thing. I think it's because I've been trying to keep a journal regularly and I keep asking myself, "Why am I forcing myself to write the funny things that happen to me in a private diary when I really just want to shout it to the world?" What a great question, I answered myself. So here I am.

I'm gonna switch up the format of this baby and primarily post short entries because I am not doing enough to warrant those super-sized essay-length posts any more. Out with the old world, in with the new. More is less. Etcetera.

So I am walking down Tremont to my hotel (let's hear it for living on-campus at a school with housing space issues!) with a big ole mesh bag of groceries from Trader Joes. I get stopped at an intersection and I hear some lady saying, "Excuse me, ma'am?" I ignore her, partly because "ma'am" is just not specific enough to get a response from me, but mostly because a year and a half of living in Boston and Europe has turned my heart hard and callous to street crazies. She continues to "ma'am" me in an increasingly nagging voice, so finally I break down and make eye contact. "Ma'am, I'm really hungry, could you help me out?" My bag of groceries consists of some avocados, apple cider vinegar, organic cereal and some bananas. Not the most appealing variety. I offer her the bananas and she immediately refuses, and gets bizarrely snappy with me about how she wants a meal. I reply, "Okay, well I can't help you, sorry," and walk away.

Look, lady. Clearly you wanted money, but don't feed me some story about how you're hungry and then reject my banana bunch. I make a point of refusing to give people money any more, because I have let people take advantage of how nice I am too many times. I know it's not very Jesus of me, but you know, Jesus never lived in Boston.