Ha. Irony was WRONG. And she apologized. Those of you who know her know what a momentous occasion this is. I think Nebraska just exploded

I know none of you are going to know what this means but I don't care, I'm so unbelievably happy I'm telling the world. I have found Balaka. There is a god. A God who cooks Indian food. Just when you think there's no justice in the world and you're having a terrible week and you wonder what the hell the point of living is, you find someone who knows how to make a proper chicken tikka masala. I love life. Satori has been achieved.

When you order food and they say it's guaranteed in under an hour and it's been 78 minutes and my curry is still not here, PEOPLE SHOULD DIE.

Dude, the late-spring flowers suck.

Hm. You know, if you type in http://cavortingministry.blogspot.org it takes you to a Korean site. My pote-alicious friend Dinah pointed that out. The things you learn.
In other news, I kicked absolute ass on my biology test. My allergies are pissing me off and I've started collecting paint samples again. It's a bit of a sickness; but the colors are so pretty. And, hey, they're free. The Fruit Hoarder and I have started helping ourselves to all the lovely flowers around campus. Our tuition money pays for them anyway. They've ripped out all the flowers infront o the student center. Have to make way for the late-spring flowers, as the early-spring flowers had been around for almost three weeks.

I don't like any of you so I'm not going to bother talking to you right now.
Cockroaches in my room today= 2
Pairs of shoes bought=3
So,a good day.

A group of us are supposed to be doing Relay for Life tonight. Except we don't know where it is. Apparently it's not on the track, where everyone thought it was. Naturally, they aren't answering their phone. We're kind of hoping they don't call us back so we don't have to go, because it's cold and raining and we've already contributed our money. If we do have to go, it's a good thing I bought a ridiculously overpriced school hooded sweatshirt to keep me warm.
It's also orientation weekend. Again. I swear, this school has more open house/orientation/special theme weekends than any other university. Ever. They start in February. And there are tour groups to wade through every day during the week. Where the hell do they all come from? All they do is walk slowly and invade our suite and take all the food from the dining hall and stand there incompetently unable to figure out how the milk dispenser works.
The tours were supposed to stop by 5:00. They're still coming. This means you can never get into the bathroom because there are always people in there doing studious examinations of the showers. This is a college; you really don't want to be looking too closely at the bathrooms. Especially since my suitemates love to leave big fuckoff piles of clothing on the floor for weeks at a time. This song is mean. I like it.

PS. Okay boyos, if you want to drive down from Maryland to visit your girlfriend -every- weekend, that's fine. But do not use the shower when there are people who actually have to be at class by a certain time while all you have to do is loaf around all day. And also, this is a suite full of girls. Do not act surprised when a girl comes into the bathroom while you're brushing your teeth in your boxers. Do not pretend to be shy. You knew there'd be females. Do not pretend to be overly concerned about your state of undress; we don't care. We are bleary eyed and you are not exactly Sark, so there's no reason for us to take note. Mostly, we just want you to get away from the sink.

You are all infidels.

Hello, my journal-reading friends. I just had a biology test. Now, first off, I don't understand why a school that's just a holding ground until Muffy and Skip are old enough to get their own memberships to the country club requires a lab science. Second, I don't understand why my professor is nitpicky evil cow who gains pleasure from proving us wrong. Also, I am making an addition to the People Who Piss Me Off list. Because it's not huge already. I have auditory stress. That means when people make noise it fucking bugs me. The girl sitting next to me today kept tapping her pencil during the test. I wanted to stab her in the neck with a pen. My friend, who I shall call Fiend, knows what I'm talking about. There was also a guy behind me who was doing a drum solo with his feet. The entire time. This is why I need a fiery pit that I can heave people into. Yep. People who tap their feet. And Tri Sigs. Them too.

Oh,here's a thought. You may have noticed that we work during the day and sleep at night. Theoretically. Well obviously this is because back in the Long Ago Time there was no electric light. But honestly, we appear to have overcome that little problem. Why the fuck do we still order our lives by such an arbitrary and outdated system? Why the hell CAN'T I get up at 4 pm and go to work if I bloody well want to? I have no problem putting in the requisite number of hours- it's the goddamn time of day that they occur that I object to. I mean, it should be my right as a human being to adjust my own goddamn circadian rhythms to whenever the hell I want. Can you tell I was late for work today? Goddamn time Nazis.

Okay, you know who should walk faster? Everybody. What's with the meandering, people? Especially those of you who stroll in pairs in spaces too narrow for me to pass by you? Now, I'm just...incredibly short, really, and had many tall friends and therefore learned to walk at a speed that some consider ridiculously fast. But, you know what? All my friends still walk that quickly; even the short ones like the Fruit Hoarder. And we constantly get stuck behind a pack of moseying idiots. I suggest tasers to remedy the situation.

Nope. Aubergine. Still looks like a brothel.

Perhaps I should have been more clear. Anything, up to and including trimming, woodwork, wainscotting, and any other sort of architectural accoutrement which was previously purple or any related shade thereof, IS NOW WHITE.

Okay, the trim was-and still is-aubergine. The walls are white. Somebody didn't have the 94 pack of Crayola crayons. The walls are white because they've always been white.

PS The dinosaur's room used to be purple. In a kind of baroque-acid-trip sort of way. Now it's white. She won't believe me, but it is.

In other news, at the moment there are pimps hanging out in front of our house. Living in the ghetto is interesting. I have to drive a half hour to get to Dean and Deluca, but on the other hand there's a nice, how shall I put it, open-air drug market two blocks away, which is just neato-keen for satisfying those pesky late-night angel dust cravings.
I used so many hyphens in that last bit, I feel like T Herman Zweibel. Whose passing we mourn every day.

I believe I shall add to Irony's manrant. Ahem. Why is it that that stupid beanpole from that Bend It Like Beckham movie is the same age as me and gets to make out with Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean while I have to sit through Bio? For the love of Rory Calhoun, it just isn't fair. And also, the gorgeous guy who was infront of me in the dining hall at lunch: Who are you? You know who you are. Who are you? Oh yeah, completely off the subject, it's sad when you order a book from Amazon and get it with two-day shipping and it's still cheaper than buying it at the school bookstore. That place takes your money and your heart.

PS If that previously mentioned blood relative does infact read this, I know you hate us mentioning anything about males as we are supposed to be eternally twelve, but this is for all those mom-taking-drugs references. Seriously. Scarring

There is obviously a great deal of dicketry going on in the universe. I can say this with complete confidence because Paul Newman is 74 and I am 25. Now I was just watching The Long Hot Summer and I realized, there is no god. Or there probably is but God is a bitter fat lesbian who is determined to get vengeance whenever possible and in my case this vengeance comes in the form of Paul Newman all sweaty and sarcastic and wearing nothing but boxers. Now I'm not going to go on about this- mostly because a lot of our friends are male and they'll read this and the homophobia will rear its predictable little head and we'll be removed from a lot of bookmarks. But you know what? If I were a straight guy I'd still want to shag Paul Newman. If I were a blind quadriplegic marmoset I'd still want to shag Paul Newman.
Fuck space-time.

PS If a certain blood relative by some chance remembered the address of this site and reads the above, all I can say is, sorry, but this is revenge for the Asian women thing.

Right. I was in Religion class today and there was a girl who did not know what a verb was. I kid you not. She claimed she 'wasn't an English major.' My professor stuttered 'It's...it's a VERB. It's not even a GERUND, it's just a verb!" I think I may have to off her. I could never live with myself if I found out that she had spawned.
Also, we were talking about psychical reaction formation and my professor said that basically, civilization follows you around and whacks you over the head whenever you do something it doesn't like. Unfortunately, I was so amused by the image of civilization as Little Bunny FooFoo that I didn't take anymore notes...

Okay, so you know how there are those holidays where you actually like staying at school? Halloween, St. Patrick's Day, Groundhog's Day, if your school doesn't need much reason to celebrate. Yeah, Easter is really not one of them. Crazy campus celebrations are pretty minimal, and everyone who doesn't have a Nazi sociology professor who assigns a project due on Good Friday goes home. And eventhough they don't actually give us any vacation time, (Getting Good Friday off at a religiously-affiliated school? Never) they close everything early. Obviously, the logic monkeys do not run this school. At home we usually have homemade pasta. I'm told this year we didn't. That makes me feel better, as others should suffer with me. I had Spaghettios and fudge-covered Oreos. Fit for a king, I tell you.
In other, better news, I got all the classes I wanted for next semester and finagled my way out of 8:00 AM Italian. Would not have been pretty. Noon Italian is much prettier. I also got an A on my religion take-home midterm. There was only one comment on the entire paper. It said "Ha! Good one," referring to my muppet analogy. I have a feeling he just didn't read the rest of it. Since the rest of it was disjointed and sparse, that totally works for me.

So the other day I'm lying on the Mall, watching a bunch of Marines do pushups, and thinking life couldn't possibly get any better. Well it would have been a hell of a lot better if they'd all taken their shirts off, but I didn't think the odds of that happening were all that high. So just when I thought things couldn't be more perfect, along comes this dumpy couple. Wearing fanny packs and quite obviously from one of the Flyover states. So dumpy wife turns to dumpy husband and says "what's that big building down there? The one with the dome?" I shit you not. And then it got even better. Dumpy husband turns to dumpy wife and says "for christ's sake, Marjorie- that's the White House."
I am really not kidding. Now, I know I bitch about the eternal stupidity of Other People, but sometimes it's so goddamn amusing. I snorted iced coffee out my nose. Which hurts. But even that couldn't ruin the day. Honestly- how these people cross the street without getting slammed by trucks, I have no idea.

PS Note for freaks who live under rocks: The big building with the dome is THE CAPITOL BUILDING. The center of washington. The one on all the postcards. Jesus.

I can't think of a single thing to put here today. Am in way too good a mood to complain about anything at all.
Hey, it happens.

And if he does it would just be indicative of the weird wrongness of mia farrow.

MY CAT DOES NOT LOOK LIKE MIA FARROW.

So, my religion professor is out there. Today, on our 'Oceanic-Mother-Loving-Freud Quiz' we had to write haikus about the class. He continued on with the haiku theme by writing the class notes on the board "Tests given next class/ They were done but I left them/ At my house. My bad." He then ranted about his mediocre rating on ratemyprofessor.com. The class ended with him telling us that we should wear skimpy clothing and drink and frolic as much as we could because we were all going to decay and die; most of us after long, painful illnesses. Naturally, I spent the rest of the afternoon sunbathing.
Mia Farrow looks like my cat. Seriously. Irony can vouch for this. If she can remember her name.

Calling someone and forgetting your own name is a bad thing. There are very, very few ways to dig yourself out of that hole.Once you've phoned someone up and forgotten how to introduce yourself, it is, in my opinion, time to go home and make tea. And that is all I have to say about my day today.

Hee. Irony thinks she isn't judgemental. That's brilliant, right there. Blatant fallacy, but brilliant. So for the last couple of weeks, the Fruit Hoarder and I have been trying to catch this duck. No, wait, we actually have a reason; it has a broken leg. We called the animal control people who told us to catch it by throwing a sheet over it and putting it in a box. After we do this, we can bring it to them. We informed them that it could still fly and swim and they said 'Boy, he's going to be hard to catch.' Now, surely the animal control people should be catching the duck instead of a bunch of twitty girls fresh off the pages of Sundresses Weekly. You say the word 'sheet' and the damn duck does a little Exorcist twist with his head and flies into the lake. Last week, the Rainy Cold Week From Hell, found about six of us running through the mud with a sheet and a box. People come up to me and ask if I'm one of the Duck Girls. The duck is still at large. He's also a father. There's this other male duck who's trying to invade his turf, which proves that there are even assholes in the bird kingdom.
Also, I absolutely adore this dry, seventy-five degree bluer-than-blue sky weather, but how am I to be expected to accomplish anything? Around here it's getting to the point where 'academic dedication' means actually showing up for a class between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00. You may start out lying by the lake reading your Freud, but in a half hour you'll either be using it as a headrest or abandoning it completely to toss around a football. Is somebody hiding behind a meticulously trimmed bush with a camera making a promotional video? Because if so, they should also be filming dormrooms at 2:00 in the morning, when we finally decide it's chilly enough to go in and are crying and selling our souls to the devil in order to get the work that we're supposed to have done a week ago finished for the class the next day that obnoxiously occurs during prime-sun time.
That's realism.

Okay, one of my friends, we'll call her Buttons because of a long story involving a nonexistant cat told me to, "Post on [my] damn journal, chica." I thought that was funny because she's as much of a JAP as I am. Maybe even more. Anyway, Irony had to go be all job-having, leaving me with the Ministry as my school year runs down. The weather's lovely again and I've done my course paper and my presentation for Expatriate Lit, which means the only thing I have to worry about in that class is not bludgeoning myself to death with The Fisher King out of boredom. Now I'm going to go read Glamorama. And Puppy better answer his phone, because I have no freaking clue about what's going on. What's up with the damn camera crew? Anyone? Anyone? And who the hell is actually dead? For god's sake. Bret Easton Ellis only had one book that made any sort of sense and it was no fun at all.