My friends and I are students. We study, we drink, we smoke, we fornicate and we constantly embarrass ourselves. If you get easily offended, I would strongly advise against reading. Everyone else; enjoy!
"For my book report, I randomly chose a book called "City of Bones", written by Michael Connelly. I read it in merely couple of days, though it's about 400 pages in length. Even though I was rather disappointed upon reaching the end, which came almost abruptly and left too many questions unanswered, I was amazed by Connelly's style of writing. It's simple, as if he just places his thoughts on a piece of paper as they come along. His message gets across easily, events are well organized and his descriptions are neither too long nor too short, but just right. Although, I have to admit, one of the reasons why I like the book so much is my infatuation with the main character; the lead investigator called Hieronymous 'Harry' Bosch.
He's a very mysterious, highly perceptive, imposing, authoritative, experienced and skilled investigator. His job is his life; he's very devoted to every single case he takes on. He's in his fifties and I don't exactly have a clear image of his face presented in my mind; it's his character that I find intriguing and attractive. Furthermore, he was named after a 15th century Dutch painted whose work I also find astonishing. Their connection is most exhibited in another Connelly's book; "A Darkness More Than Night". Bosch, the painter, was most popular for his triptychs which depicted world full of perversity, sin, nudity and twisted fantasies. This book is connected to Bosch's work in a sense that the symbolic interpretation of each of his paintings brings the investigators one step closer to reveling a serial killer's identity. One of the motifs referred to in the book is an image of an owl, which often appears on Bosch's triptychs. I wanted to see these paintings, so I used Google, my secondary brain which is operational when my own is in sleep/drunk mode. The painting I Googled is called "The Garden of Earthly Delights". It's huge and has too many characters to count, but that didn't stop me from staring at the painting like an idiot and trying to find the damned owl and the naked man who's hugging the stupid bird. It was like trying to find Waldo in a candy striper parade. After a good hour of searching, I accidentally stumbled upon it (if anyone's interested, it's located on the centre part of the triptych, on the left side, in the bottom lake, right next to two woman neatly situated in a bubble).
Bosch's painting reminded me of a poster I had last seen couple of years ago in Germany, in my gay uncle's apartment. That poster was also full of divine and sinful imaginary creatures, angels, demons, humans, animals and some kind of hybrids. Everything was chaotic. The poster presented some kind of morbid parade which descended from huge, gaping mouth of a smiling, bald, fat man. It was surrounded with naked female and male genitalia, detached from the body. This composition immediately reminded me of Bosch, so I sent my uncle a message, asking him if it was a correct assumption. Soon enough he answered me, saying that it was a common mistake since Bosch and the author of that painting shared a rather similar creative expression. He revealed to me that the author's name was Carsten Svennson and that the name of his painting was Gaia. I spent the next couple of hours scanning through every possible painting made by Bosch, intently studying them, thinking how his paintings could easily serve as an excellent illustration of Dante's "Divine Comedy". After feeling overwhelmed by art (since I never bothered studying it more than 3 seconds, which is precisely enough for me to look at a certain painting and look away), I decided to call it a day and go to sleep. "
Pedagogy tries to teach us how to be more optimistic, tolerant, altruistic and empathic. All of these traits are not only important when working with children, but with people in general. Regretfully, our behavior undermines all the attempts our professors make while trying to turn us into better people. Take this conversation, for example.
Eva: I sent you an invitation to join a group called:My turban brings all the Muslims to the yard and they're like العنصرية ش. There's also a Chinese version of this group. It involves noodles.
Blair: I have a Muslim friend on my list. It wouldn't be appropriate to join that group. But I haven't got a Chinese! Hit me!
Eva: My noodles bring all the Chinese to the yard and they're like 美味的面条.
Blair: There we go. Intercultural pedagogy my ass.
On many different occasions do we talk about lesbians (most often these conversations include Blair - for no apparent reason, we just tease her that she's a lesbian). When talking about lesbians we divide them into two types: just lesbians and vicious lesbians. Just lesbians are plain lesbians. Vicious lesbians are bitchy lesbians who have to compensate for their physical lack of balls by inventing a figurative pair. That's why they often argue and beat people up for no reason. There's one of such lesbians living here, too. She lives on the other side of the town but she's known all over. People tend to avoid her. Anyway, few days ago, when Blair, Alecia and Alecia's cousin Mattias decided to test their alcohol endurance (which is now classified as a skill) by buying 6l of beer and a bottle of tequila, the three of us sat near a bank and waited for Alecia to return from the nearby cash machine. Mattias sat in between me and Blair. I saw the bank's security guard moving slowly behind the glass, with arms folded over his chest. I suggested teasing him, pretending that we would run towards him in a hostile fashion, to see if he was trigger happy. Mattias turned towards me and muttered in a quiet, yet serious tone; "We should sent in Blair to threaten him with her troop of vicious lesbians." At that point, something inside of me snapped and I experienced a really loud and to my companions, comfort-disturbing laughing fit. The joke wasn't so funny, but it hit the right spot at that moment and I kept laughing through the three following stores we visited. I wouldn't let it go. By the time we got to the apartment, we had already devised a complete scheme of Blair's lesbian organization, which functioned pretty much like the Italian mafia, but instead of leaving a horse's head in an enemy's bed as a threatening gesture, lesbians could leave chicken breasts.
"I think karma has me on her black list. She's been a real bitch lately. Yesterday, some stupid bird crapped all over my jacket. It could be considered luck only if I had been holding somebody else's jacket. Also, just two minutes before leaving home and going to catch a bus, I accidentally spilled a full cup of coffee on my white sweater, clean pants and and on my new, flowery and completely giddy slippers. This was an open invitation for a whole new inventory of profanities. Also, on the bus that day, a very hairy and smelly man sat next to me, fell asleep and snored the whole way. Even the loud sound of bus engine gave in to that rumbling noise.
My stomach hurts. Karma gave it another punch few days ago, during a Corpus Linguistics class. Corpus Linguistics is an elective class and (to my surprise) it's not all that bad. For May, the feeling of sitting there in front of a computer and searching through numerous corpora and through a vicious little program called SARA (which often refuses cooperation and crashes) is almost orgasmic. She's a bit of a freak, but we love her. Anyway, we work on computers and we're constantly online. So, the lazy bums that we are, we usually set up camp in the last couple of rows of the classroom and waste our time on Facebook while the rest of the people diligently work. We pretend to be scanning through collocations and evaluating Z and MI score of different phrases, but we're actually harvesting corn on FarmVille. At the beginning of our last class, one of my lazy bum colleagues ordered me to come online on Facebook chat so that she could forward me a link. Once I opened the link, I realized that it was an invitation to a group called: "I hate it when I have my period in the ocean and a shark bites my vagina." Again, not the funniest group in the world, but it was one of those moments when you're absolutely not supposed to be laughing, which only adds oil to an already raging flame. One of my hands covered my mouth in vain attempt to muffle the sound of laughing, and the other, which was solidly pressed against the table as I laughed, began rocking it as my entire body shook. The monitor nearly fell down. The moment I pressed 'Join', I felt something going wrong. In about minute or so I unexpectedly got my period. Luckily I had been on land, otherwise I would no doubtingly become surrounded with man-eating white sharks eager to bite my vagina. Stupid karma. How does she do it every single time?
I was unable to move properly for the rest of the day. I remember how one of my male friends once wondered out loud what it would be like to have a period. I told him that if he was eager to find out, I would gladly stuff a went sponge down his pants and subsequently kick him in the nuts."
Out of pure boredom, I had been skimming through some interesting showbiz news when I ran into an article I just had to forward to Alecia. Being aware of her incessant obsession with Colin Farrell, I simply knew that she would rampage through the room out of pure joy after reading it. No need to deny it, like most of these posts on my blog, this one also revolves around a penis. However, this is not just any penis, but a Colin Farrell penis. The article was about Jackie Collins being in awe after watching his home-made video. She made a statement about the glorious and tremendous size of Farrell's equipment. The moment I had shared this link with Alecia, she made a desperate plea, wishing to see that video. Being a good friend, I was even willing to expose my laptop to countless threats which emerge from a single visit to most popular porn sites, just to make her happy. Finally, I managed to find it. I tried opening it, but it requested a newer version of Flash Player. At this point, I started suspecting that it was a dud, but forwarded the link to Alecia nevertheless. She told me that it was the real video and I initiated the downloading process, wishing to see just what made Jackie Collins shiver in fear.
Woman like Alecia and me don't know how to watch porn. We both watched the video at the same time and commented on the most idiotic things; why the hell was that stupid naked woman in front of the television switching channels when she has a very naked and eager Colin Farrell in the room?! These comments lasted till a certain part of Colin's body probed the scene (very literally). I'd say he's an exception, if we were to believe that average penis length table, which situates Ireland somewhat at the bottom of the list. My MSN window never stopped flashing after being swamped with Alecia's impressions and exclamations. Farrell certainly lived up to his reputation. I was forced to watch the initial part of the video couple of times to pause it at a precisely perfect moment where its valor would be at its climax. After that, my finger never moved away from PrintScreen button. Colin's penis invaded absolutely every chat window. It was unstoppable. After that incident had passed and the passion cooled down a notch, Alecia and I gallantly became fans of Colin James Farrell on Facebook (this was only because his penis didn't have it's own profile).
Also, Alecia had just asked me a very interesting question and got a semi-automatic, but an honest answer. She asked: "What do you think, if I were to end up on TV, what would be the reason?", to which I simply stated: "Indecent exposure." I admit it, her little escapade of taking a dip in the fountain last week may have influenced my answer a bit.
"Last week, I moved back home. I thought that commuting to college wouldn't be too hard, but that proved wrong. My bus lines are too few. This morning, my bus was taking off at 6.45, which meant that I had to get up at least at 5.15. Seeing that I had fallen asleep somewhat around 3.30 the previous night, I was utterly incapacitated when my alarm clock started ringing. Not even a horde of rabid monkeys trained in setting furniture on fire would have been able to force me out. I knocked the cell down from my table, enjoying the loud 'thud' it created when coming in contact with the floor. My eyes remained glued together and I refused to move. That was the point when I decided to skip the class. My mind was somewhat willing, but my body refused to cooperate. No, scratch that, both my mind and body were unwilling. If someone had literally lit my bed on fire that morning, I would have probably burnt down with it.
Somewhat around 10.30, I got up, make some extra strong coffee and sat in front of my computer. I talked to Ella, who had also skipped the same class, but for a much better purpose than just plain rest. She chose to stay in bed with her boyfriend. Damn, I hate her. Well, at least I'll win a bottle of tequila to poison myself with it."
It continues here:
"As I have been commuting to college for the last couple of days, I started paying attention to our bus drivers. Ordinarily, I'm used to them being rude and audacious, but I actually met one who isn't. Today, he greeted me happily as I had been entering the bus and his tone of voice wasn't even condescending (though I had been a bit late). I don't know his name, so I call him Charlie. Charlie's in his late forties, slightly bald and wears glasses. He has rather thin lips, but a warm smile nevertheless. He's very nice. Though Charlie may be pleasant, he's a real psycho on the road. He drives like a lunatic; overtaking absolutely anything that comes along - tractors, trucks, other buses, cars, SUVs, bikes - doesn't matter as long as it's in front of him. Maybe he has a phobia of objects being in his way. The last time he had been driving, I dozed off a bit and my head was leaning towards the window. He drove into a curve at the speed of approximately 50km/h and this caused me to roughly crash my forehead against the glass. I woke up, confused, and unglued my head from the glass, leaving a greasy trail behind. I hate my complexion and my skin.
Charlie also likes to listen to radio loudly. I am very thankful for this. Other bus drivers turn the radio on, but only loud enough for them to hear it. In those cases, the tune's additionally muffled by the loud engine sounds so I have to listen to the song for couple of minutes before realizing which one it is. Plus, the moment I realize what song is playing, it's over. It's usually never loud enough for me to enjoy it. That's why I appreciate Charlie's attempts of turning the bus into a disco on wheels."
I've cut my nails and painted them black. I really like the way they look right now. I'd be perfectly happy if I had many nail polishers so I could paint my nails in different color each day. It would be so cool. Alecia started playing some kind of Ninja game on Facebook. She informed me that Ninjas and Samurai aren't exactly fond of each other. I tried finding out why, but Google failed me this time. Speaking of Ninjas, they'd become quite popular on Facebook. Numerous applications, groups, fan pages and quizzes. Concerning quizzes and applications, their popularity is at its highest during exam time. Alecia rules them all. When she knows she has to study, she will create a mess in order to clean it as to avoid studying. After every last speck of dust is removed from our apartment, she will then calmly sit down and play all the possible games on Facebook and solve stupid quizzes. I understand her completely, I know it can be troublesome to resume with your life without knowing what kind of Gypsy you are, how big is your penis or what object you will have inserted up your ass by the end of the day.
I posted that question about the Samurai and the Ninjas on Yahoo! answer page. I got couple of replies. The Samurai apparently hate the deceit and treachery that Ninjas implore; it goes against their code of honor. Plus, Samurai hate that Ninjas look cooler. Thank you, Yahoo! folks, for helping me unveil the truth.
Another random thought; Blair had recently made an outstanding analogy by saying that having sex with someone who has a small penis was very much like playing basketball with a tennis ball (a/n: I don't think about penises as often as these notes would suggest. Additional a/n: Yes, I do.).
Switching from penises to a completely different, non-related topic - I just remembered that in one of my previous posts I had mentioned having an evil twin. Well, May and I have evil twins. There are two students of Croatian language who are probably two least popular woman to have studied at our college. Ever. Okay. During exam time, friendliness is expected between fellow students, even between those people who cannot stand each other on a daily bases. Nobody is agile or eager enough to prepare materials for a certain test on their own, that's why then we like people we normally despise. We find a way to become useful to each other. Our evil twins, on the other hand, are as useful during this exam period as a one legged man in an ass kicking competition. Selfishly do they keep all the materials, solutions and answers to themselves, while the rest of us mortals struggle to get something useful. I'm also selfish in a way. I only hand out my materials to people who know how to appreciate the gesture. There's nothing wrong with that, right?
Anyway, our evil twins are Babka and George. I was once asked to name at least 3 things I liked about Babka. For starters, it took me about 20 minutes to produce 2 things and I couldn't possibly come up with the third one. I said: "I like that she doesn't live anywhere near me, so I don't often run into her. Also, I like the fact that she and I study only English language together, because I think I would most likely apply for a gun if she studied Pedagogy as well." Two things we have in common are big boobs and intensive perspiration. Her greatest wish is to move to Russia and on one of our last classes she mentioned a possibility of going to Poland next semester to resume with her studying there. The moment she uttered those words, I experienced a faint orgasm. I am willing to do anything to help her achieve that goal. I mean it, absolutely anything. I will kill, maim and slaughter if I have to. If she bumps into financial problems, I am seriously willing to organize a charity concert where I will personally embarrass myself on stage while singing karaoke in a gorilla suit just to gather enough money to mail her ass to Poland.
May's twin is a bit more tolerable. The two of them are equally competitive, wear colorful clothes and share that same streak of perfectionism. George is the type of student who will, after eight arduous hours of classes, at the point where people are prepared to trample and murder anyone standing on their way towards the classroom exit, draw the stupidest question out of her ass, direct it at the professor, thus extending our class for additional 20 to 25 minutes. She's also the one who chose "Twilight" for her book report. It surprised me. She's too smart for this dimension and still, she chose to present that crap of a book. She explained it by saying that she enjoyed keeping up with the latest pop culture. Alright, a good explanation/excuse. Still, I hate her.
"Blair writes poems. This is something I was unaware of. She writes them in English. She also mentioned that back in high school, she was excellent at composing haiku poems. I never cherished poetry enough to attempt creating it. To me, poetry is very demanding and limiting. I admire poets because of their ability to place all those thoughts, ideas and emotions within the lines of a single poem. I don't think I'd be very good at it. My thoughts are too blooming and overwhelming to be contained within a poem. For me, writing a poem about my life would be like trying to stuff a giraffe into a fridge. Poets have to maintain a certain sense and rhythm within frames of their work, minding way too many limiting factors; verses, rhyme and length. I lack patience to do so. Now, if writing a poem could be considered a struggling challenge, you can only imagine how I would define writing a haiku - as challenging and upsetting as trying to stuff an egg back into a chicken.
I'll definitely stick to prose. However, I might ask Blair to write a poem about my love life. Seeing the path it's currently trailing, I might even get a soap opera about it. That leprechaun is still making no attempts of contacting me. Something smells fishy about this entire situation and I don't mean his lover's aging vagina. Yes, I'm that bitter. Get off my fucking case.
I just remembered my first mobile phone. It was a Motorola. It was so huge in size and weight that it could probably cause a concussion if it landed on somebody's head. Plus, it had an antenna. My favorite mobile phone was a Nokia 3310. It was the most popular model; everyone had it. It was the perfect mobile phone; if it landed on solid ground it fell apart into precisely 4 parts which could easily be puzzled back together. If an iPhone experienced such a blow, it would probably burst apart into millions of pieces and it would be cheaper to buy a new phone rather than trying to patch it up. Nowadays, mobile phones are graced with vast number of applications and programs people don't normally need or know how to use. I think a very useful addition to a state-of-the-art mobile phone would be a breathalyzer. It's just what every modern boozer needs. I, for one, would find that very useful. For example, before you start drinking, you activate it and it doesn't allow you to send messages if it doesn't find you sober enough. Major catastrophes and embarrassments would be gallantly avoided.
During that last drinking marathon, I was encouraged to send Chain a message. It was a simple message, well typed, asking him if he planned to go to an upcoming concert. To my utter surprise, a reply arrived rather quickly and it wasn't completely negative. He suggested that he might think about it if he had more information about when and where. After that, I kept muttering that this plan would fail and that he wouldn't be accompanying me, but Alecia madly claimed that he would. This harbored a bet. The person who lost would have to buy a bottle of tequila. After this last Saturday when Chain completely blew me off, I deleted his number from my address book, to avoid sending him any messages. I know his number enough to recognize it if he miraculously chose to contact me, but insufficiently enough to type it in and send a drunken message.
"Yesterday, we started drinking at 10AM. The four of us; Blair, Alecia, May and me. After an hour boredom started kicking in so we introduced a new workshop; we were only allowed to speak in English. The person to first start talking in Croatian had to drink everything that was currently in their glass. I was the one who made such mistakes most often. Damn you, Croatian! After a while, it was as if our brains switched to English language and it became completely natural. Words and grammatical constructions just started flowing, nobody was making mistakes and we were actually using words and phrases we normally wouldn't. Our intention was to film the degeneration of our English as we drank. We filmed 3 videos, the first one was filmed at the very beginning, the second one was made after a few hours and the last one somewhat in the late afternoon. That last one is full of mistakes, stupid words, literal translations and Croatian equivalents. I made an interesting observation that we swore a whole lot less when speaking in English.
Also, we have May her birthday present - blue sneakers. In that drunken haze, she kept complaining how her left sneaker was pinching her. We all assumed it was because the sneakers were new. Only tomorrow did she realize that she had shoes of two different sizes. The exchange went well and everything is in order now.
Nothing stimulating ever happens to us. We have no ambition and nothing interests us. We haven't got any goals in life and we rarely think about the future. Perhaps it's better this way. Thinking about the future can often be disappointing, especially if things don't go according to our plans. I like the fact that we live one day at a time. Our 'friend', Dwayne Marley, the one who thinks we're as low and complex as the fungi that grow beneath a stone in a 10 meter deep gutter, is nowhere near being such a person. His idea of being adventurous and spontaneous would be choosing to have chocolate cereals instead of the regular ones for breakfast. No, scratch that. That's not the food serious, working adults eat. He grew up too fast for any of us to follow and suddenly there was no more room for us in his life. I dunno, we are satisfied the way we are. We like being childish and laughing to people's bald spots or bulging genital regions, even if it made us as popular as a cock-flavored lollipop (irony in all of this is that Dwayne Marley is even more unpopular than we are; to put it delicately - he's as popular as a cock-flavored lollipop dipped in dog shit). I really don't want to grow up. I want to remain a child in the world of adults. I can't perceive myself differently, despite the fact that I'm rushing at speed of light towards my diploma, which will instantly diminish this last resort of childhood and push me into the world of adults. Hopefully, I won't change much. My brain refuses to function in any other way, which is something I embrace with eagerness. Feeling and staying young FTW.
"We have a woman who goes to same classes as the rest of us and smells really bad. No, that would be an understatement. An armpit of a truck driver after an 8-hour drive smells bad. She reeks. Crap, I'm so going to end up in Hell. Her odor is rather specific. In that concoction of smells, one dominates. She smells of burek. I tried Googling the term, trying to find an English equivalent but I doesn't exist. Lexical gap, I suppose. The only translation that I've managed to find was that a 'burek' can be defines as a 'leafy meat-pie' but I find it unworthy so I'll keep using the term 'burek'. At times, she also smells a bit like fish that had been taken out of the water and thrown on the asphalt during a hot summer day... and sometimes, as if a dog came and crapped all over that fish. Also, a bit like feet. Anyway, it's certainly a combination which makes you feel as if you have a roller coaster inside your stomach.
This one time, I had the misfortune of sitting to her left in one of our classes; I think it was during the English Language Practice. I leaned a bit forward to poke Alecia when Burek Lady lifted her left arm while stretching. In an instant, I thought my eyes were gonna melt straight onto the desk before me. Such intensity was overwhelming and I stopped in mid speech and pushed myself backwards, along with my chair, rather unsubtly. Alecia quickly turned forward, but I could see that she was laughing, that cunning bitch, masking her laughter as a cough as her entire body violently shook. I was unable to do the same because Burek Lady had started questioning me about some kind of task we got to solve. After recovering from that incident (and regretting having a nose), I silently prayed that someone would stick a branch into my ear and remove my short-term memory. Just as I regained composure, she lifted her hand and dug into that oily hair. Alright, nothing strange, my scalp also itches at times. Not alright, when she started raking her nails through it; it was an action accompanied by a sound which disgusted people sitting three rows in front of us. I could imagine the dandruff and skin cells piling up beneath those short, yellow nails. That sound outvoiced even our professor.
Burek Lady isn't a bad person, she might even have a good personality... BUT IT'S BEING SUFFOCATED AND SCREAMING FOR MERCY BENEATH THOSE TOXIC FUMES! FOR GOODNESS SAKE, WOMAN! IT'S THE 21ST CENTURY! RUNNING WATER STOPPED BEING A LUXURY 2 CENTURIES AGO! WASH YOURSELF, WOMAN! DAMN IT."
"We had another productive penis-related discussion today. Christian, the geeky guy Alecia is completely infatuated with, had made a comment about Americans having rather small penises. Allegedly, a research on that topic was conducted and they concluded that an average American penis was 12.1cm long. May commented that African Americans (yes, I'll use that expression to cushion the inappropriate comments concerning the Chinese girl) don't have as large penises as people are convinced. If that were true, the average of American penises would surely be bigger. Anyway, we started Googling penises. We learned that Danish people had the biggest and Irish people had the smallest. I've always wondered if guys measured their penises. I mean, if I were a guy, I definitely would. I'd be interested to know. If I remained unsatisfied with the numbers, I'd deny ever doing it. For some UNKNOWN reason, I asked Christian if guys actually did that and he used the best evasive maneuvers he could compose at the time and never answered my question. I really wonder why he did that.
We located the Chinese girl. I accidentally found her on Facebook; she attended some kind of party, posted pictures and tagged one of my friends who volunteers at AIESEC. Damian proved to be completely useless. Facebook is the mother board of all stalkers. Eh, no use in befriending her now since she would be going home soon. Still, fun search."
The thing that never fails to stoop me is when someone calls us civilized people; academic citizens. We can hardly be called a civilized group of people. We're no where close to being civilized. Hell, at times, we can hardly be called 'people' (the Chinese girl incident). This particularly springs to surface during our everyday conversations. Normal people are capable of conducting serious discussions about politics, religion or economics on a daily basis. We aren't. Most of our serious discussions consist of a single question and an answer. For example, our last presidential elections practically went unmentioned in our apartment. I distinctively remember the full 10 seconds of conversation we devoted to that issue. I had been resting in my bed and Alecia was surfing the web. My head was stuck beneath my pillow and her back was turned to me. We didn't even look at each other.
"Who are you gonna vote for?" I offered my response without even lifting my head. She did the same. After that, the discussion was over. Also, here's another example:
"I would like to get married in a church one day." She said.
"I wouldn't."
The end.
That's pitiful. We're unable to compose interesting and socially adequate discussions about general topics for the love of God. However, when it comes to conversations about which vegetable would most likely end up behind bars or what kind of utterly disgusting bodily fluids humans are apt to produce, we are able to devise bullet proof and extensive theories.
"We had started talking about church and religion more and more lately. Of course, not through their generally accepted context. On our last American Affirmative Drama class, the professor had asked us if we were going to hold the class on Good Friday. We refused because, as Alecia delicately explained, "we have to go to church and pray for the salvation of our souls". I commented that there weren't enough prayers in this world that would get us there. Church and religion jargon eventually become a cover for a nasty habit we had been cherishing publicly for the past couple of years. Whenever we're going out, knowing that by the end of the night we'd be under the table, we use a bit of church jargon. If I'm going to the bar, I leave a note saying that I'm off to church. This is usually a cue for Ella to rush in with a comment about praying on my knees all night at the altar, adding a certain perverseness to an already disrespecting topic. I'm pretty convinced that God's in cahoots with karma. He's not allowed to strike us with that arrow of His (the one Blair's always mentioning) because the New Testament is forcing that loving and forgiving image upon Him, so he's sending in karma to do the dirty work for him, you know, by making us pee on decent people and such."
They say that every cigarette takes away approximately 20 minutes of one's life. I find it acceptable since those last couple of years probably won't be that interesting. I see myself as a crumbled up old woman, wrapped in six layers of wool clothes which would be preventing my kidneys from falling out, situated in a wheelchair and throwing my denture towards the refrigerator. Also, I can easily see myself complaining a lot. I mean, I constantly complain even now, I can only imagine what will happen when I accumulate about 60 years of life experience under my belt. I'm not exactly a hypochondriac. I'm just a sissy. Every week brings a new medical condition over which I so eagerly nitpick.
Strangely enough, that doesn't prevent me from enjoying a decent smoke, especially when I'm drinking. Alecia and Blair are experienced smokers who probably enjoyed their first cigarette before thrusting the first pad into their panties. If Death came to collect them, they would most likely cajole it into waiting for them to have one last smoke. There's nothing wrong with that. I mean, I'm sure many children have a desire to be mistaken for a steam engine when growing up. So, they're official smokers.
May and myself, on the other hand, we're the worst kind of smokers there is. We're sneaky and occasional smokers who, when drunk, would probably try to sell each other for a cigarette. We're also authors of the 4 seconds rule (when something we're about to eat falls on the floor we have 4 seconds to collect it before germs invade it) which is extended to an 11 seconds rule if it involves a cigarette. The 4 seconds rule had to be modified because we're usually drunk and it's dark when this happens so it takes us more time to locate it. I remember this one particular Thursday when we still had been living in our old apartment; we got drunk and walked to the centre. Since we lived in a completely different time zone, secluded from the rest of the civilization and all means of transportation, we needed about 40 minutes on foot to get there. This period would be extended to a full hour if we had been wasted, which was often the case. We would travel lightly, from one bench to another, never missing out on an opportunity to test our vocal cords and the nerves of people living nearby. Anyway, on that evening, May had decided to wear her 'special occasion' earrings. We stopped at the first bench we could find, merely couple of hundreds of metres from our apartment. Couple of us started singing as if on cue, sounding worse than ten February cats which were glued together, thrown in a bag and smacked against a brick wall. This is definitely one of the most common miscalculations of being drunk; the idea that you're a talented singer. You're not. You're embarrassing yourself. You should stop before someone films you, posts the video on Facebook and tags you.
Anyway, May had managed to get a cigarette and she was flailing her hands around when she accidentally dropped it onto the ground. She leaned forward and as she did, her earring fell into the grass as well. She started yelling about losing an earring and knelt on the ground, trying to find it. In about 30 seconds, she stood up and her face lit with joy. She raised her hands in a reassuring manner and exclaimed:
"Don't worry people! I found the cigarette!"
I'm not sure what happened to the earring. It's possible that it is still somewhere out there.
"The three of us went to church today, it was my friend's daughter's christening. I don't like going to church. During the last couple of months, I've been to church on more occasions than during the last 22 years, which might seem pitiful to an average believer since I've only been there twice; when my best friend was getting married and for this christening. It definitely wasn't our day. We parked near our ex high school, on the side of a hill threatening to slide down along with the car. The wind had been blowing, so all those minutes of special care wasted on my hairstyle got blown away, literally, since I ended up looking like a Pekingese who had carelessly licked an outlet.
We entered the church and went to the front because Calamidades wanted to see the baby. Of course, being a former atheist and a current agnostic, I knew not a single prayer. That had been a real challenge at the wedding. I was the maid of honor and stood in front of the altar and the priest, along with the spouses-to-be. We were constantly being filmed and as the priest babbled, I gaped around, trying to remember the last time I had been in a church. As if my stupefied gaze caught on camera wasn't enough, the priest kept ordering some kind of prayers; prayers I knew nothing about. I tried blending in, which was pretty hard seeing that the four of us were standing alone in front of the crowd; next to me was the bride. The priest glared at me the moment I started improvising and inventing my own prayers, so I chose to stay silent throughout the rest of the mass.
Oh boy, was that man happy when settling his eyes upon me on the christening. The baby remained asleep through the entire process. I broke the silence by asking Calamidades if people clapped after the christening. Luckily I had been sane enough to ask before doing it. She nearly burst laughing. I dunno, the timing seemed appropriate for a clap, though I don't know what kind of supernatural forces would be necessary to prevent the priest from attacking me with a Bible if I had actually clapped. In addition to that, after the christening had been done and the people settled, preparing to go and take pictures, Calamidades decided to sit back down. However, the movement had been sudden and miscalculated, so she ended up thudding her ass upon the wooden handrails of the two church chairs. As if that weren't enough, she produced a really strange and incoherent sound which pushed me into a laughing fit. My insane laughter bounced against the walls of the church, most certainly pleasing the priest."
And another diary entry:
"I have only two comments for this day. Actually, I have a question and a theory. The man I'm every so often involved with sexually, my own personal chain, has an incredible ability of mystifying me. He seems simple enough and I'd say I'm rather smart, but I can't quite understand him. Few days ago, I borrowed a pair of nuts and decided to send him a decent, easygoing and sober message. I spend hours carefully deciding upon the time of sending and the content of the message, trying to suggest he crossed my mind, but nothing too serious. I asked at least 10 people for their opinion on the matter. They were unable to suggest anything smart to send to him, so I had to work on it alone. What a mistake. I had been typing that message for at least 30 minutes. Nothing seemed good, careless or interesting enough. Eventually, in a complete adrenaline fit, I typed something, forced Alecia to click the 'send' button on my behalf and when the words "message sent" appeared on my screen, I screamed and tossed the phone behind the bed. Sadly, my phone doesn't store messages after sending them, so I wasn't able to see what I had typed. I remembered it partially. I wrote something along the following lines: "Hey, I have a question. What do you like doing? There must be something and you don't look like the type of guy to collect post stamps."
Alecia nearly died laughing after hearing that. It was the stupidest message my mind could have possibly produced and yet, I still sent it. The man never answered. Of course he didn't, chances for a conversation about post stamps to develop into a stimulating one were from slim to nothing. Casual and flirting conversations cannot be born from the topic of philately. The following day I went out, drank a bit too much and sent him a message to go screw himself. Sure, to that he answered and he was all peachy, asking me where I was and filling the message with smiling emoticons. Where's the logic in that?!
We're not respectable members of society, we're apes. One of our professors had a book promotion and we were all blackmailed to attend it. In exchange for our presence, we got 2 points. If the assistant who usually teaches us knew what kind of idiots we truly were, she would have probably given us those two points without forcing us to be there.
We arrived and sat down, realizing that national TV was planning to cover this event. Two cameras were situated right in front of us. Of course, this only meant that our idiotism would be broadcast for all the decent people in the state to see. In addition to our professor, there was an eminent and famous Croatian playwright present at the promotion. During her everlasting speech, we were dying of boredom. Alecia had been busy reading "Great Expectations" and May and I were playing some kind of game where you write answers to questions without actually seeing them. When associated, these questions and random answers make interesting and funny combinations. We were giggling the whole time and we were far from being subtle. Also, we solved a mystery. One of the questions was: "Why don't they ever take us to the theatre?" and the answer was: "Because we stink."
When we got bored with that, we started paying attention but that proved too stressful so we started talking again. Alecia exchanged couple of words with Harris, who was sitting next to her and then started laughing pretty loudly. I poked her, wanting to know what was so funny. I gave her the notebook which we used to exchange messages during class and she started scribbling in it. I glanced forward and saw that eminent author giving a small speech and wondered if he had written and published something I knew of. I quietly asked Alecia that and she started laughing even harder. Confusion lasted only for a second because when I glanced down to read what she had wrote, I read: "...and because we're such uneducated peasants I asked Harris to tell me at least one book that man wrote..." Nothing more was necessary. We laughed till we were asked to settle down.
Also, somewhere during that promotion, my pen had fallen beneath the chairs. I reached down between the chairs to get it and the moment I grabbed it, I realized that my arm got stuck between them. This created additional commotion and flailing of legs in mid air. After that, when we were encouraged to ask questions, I offered some money to Alecia to ask that author to name at least three of his books. She refused, saying that the lack of alcohol in her organism was preventing her from being that shameless.
"I lost another pen pal. This one added me on MSN, talked to me couple of times, complimented me on my English and then told me that I had become unbelievably boring during the last couple of weeks and that it was rather disappointing. After that, he deleted me. Can't exactly say that I blame him. His English is flawless and the moment he had told me that mine was amazing for a non-native speaker, I felt this huge bundle of pressure heaving against my chest. This resulted in me using several different dictionaries when talking to him, thinking that my ordinary sentence constructions wouldn't be good enough. I started doubting my language skills, checking up almost every two syllabic word in online dictionaries and wondering if constructions such as 'what would you have me do' are correct. Strange, huh?"
One of my closest friends, Blair, is a gaydar. Absolutely every man she likes is either slightly feminine or completely gay. Recently she and another colleague of mine had joined a group on Facebook called "Oh my Gosh, he's hot, he's perfect, he's... gay." I supported her. When in doubt, we use her. She has never failed so far. Anyway, the two of them started commenting on how often that happens to them and how they never give up, even if that boy was the biggest fruitcake in the patisserie. They would go as far as to try and convince them to play for our team. I told them that a woman could never make a mistake of such nature if entering a relationship with a man wearing a huge chain around his neck. My best friends and I couldn't differ more. Once, the four of us decided to go out for a beer and as we sat down and ordered, we realized that we had all ordered different brands of beer. The same rule can be applied to our types of men. To make things easier, I'll define all four types:
TYPE 1: GEEK (Alecia's choice)
APPEARANCE: They are usually tall, mostly skinny, with weak limbs (tend to increase musculature with extreme physical labor) and oily skin, they like to wear clothes in cute colors and then argue when someone notices.
NATURAL HABITAT: Around a computer/laptop.
MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION: They have their own car and are proud of it (never miss out on an opportunity to mention that), though they still live with their parents.
OBJECT OF CHOICE: IPod.
PICK-UP LINE WHICH MAY INTEREST THEM: Eye to eye contact: "I just love Math! I usually solve equations while drinking my morning coffee!"
NOURISHMENT: Despite their size, they can eat incredibly much (of absolutely anything).
BEST ADVICE: Don't brag about your Math/Tech/Physics skills for they will actually expect a demonstration. Invite them over for couple of movies and some popcorn. Make sure you have plenty of popcorn.
TYPE 2: FEMI (Blair's choice)
APPEARANCE: They sweat Chanel 5, pee glitter and crap flowers, they're absolutely perky and fabulous, have flawless fashion sense, ponder for hours over different assets, wondering if it would be too weird to wear their sister's shoes. In the end they decide to postpone that for Halloween. It's a good excuse, anyway.
NATURAL HABITAT: Benetton, S. Oliver, cocktail parties.
MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION: They go afoot so that random strangers and mortals can enjoy standing next to them at the traffic lights.
OBJECT OF CHOICE: Deodorant.
PICK-UP LINE WHICH MAY INTEREST THEM: Eye to entire body contact: "Fantastic outfit! You look wonderful. I look like crap."
NOURISHMENT: If outside, they'll eat only the food that doesn't leave stains. If at home, they'll anything.
BEST ADVICE: Take out your best outfit out of your closet, get drunk with them, and then shag them on a kitchen table or in front of a mirror.
TYPE 3: OUTCAST (May's choice)
APPEARANCE: They have long (often curly) hair cascading down their shoulders, wear dark clothes and even if they were stranded upon an ancient Mayan temple infested with carnivorous man-eating plants, they would still pull out a guitar out of their ass and play a soft, romantic tune. They're big fans of mythological creatures.
NATURAL HABITAT: Dormitories.
MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION: They go afoot; cars are dangerous and pollute Mother Earth.
OBJECT OF CHOICE: Guitar.
PICK-UP LINE WHICH MAY INTEREST HIM: Eye to eye contact: "Come on. Have a beer and then play something for us!"
NOURISHMENT: Many outcasts are vegetarians or vegans. Those who aren't prefer home-made cooking.
BEST ADVICE: Here, honesty IS the best policy. Talk about deep philosophical topics (meaning of life is quite fruitful) or dragons.
TYPE 4: CHAIN (My choice)
APPEARANCE: Attractive, superficial idiots who barely master the ability of turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. When they're toddlers, they get their first chain, which not only melts into their skin, but also increases in size as their bearer gets older (in their early 20s, they are able to anchor a ship the size of Titanic with it).
NATURAL HABITAT: Behind/beneath a bar.
MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION: They have an SUV; the more smoke it produces, the better. Mother Earth is evil and needs to be punished (just as their liver).
OBJECT OF CHOICE: Chain.
PICK-UP LINE WHICH MAY INTEREST HIM: Eye to boob contact - no words necessary.
NOURISHMENT: They prefer barbecues and adore meat, especially bloody (preferably attached to a still living being).
"If I had enough money, I would probably publish my own book. I know it sounds really pathetic and that most likely nobody would read it, except my friends (who would be obliged to) and maybe couple of acquaintances (who would only be interested to see if I had something to say about them), but I would really like an opportunity to hold in my hands a hardcover book imprinted with my name on it. If I ever got that opportunity, my name would be in capital letters, BOLD, and printed in some fluorescent color that would be visible from outer space. Also, the hardcover would come in handy to enable more devastating damage when beating certain individuals with it.
I don't know what makes a good writer. I think I have some talent bottled up inside, but I have no persistence necessary to complete a project. I had ended only two grand projects. One is a fantasy novel which I wrote back in high school, when such things fascinated me. Even though my computer had been crashing every single week, it never occurred to me to save that story on a CD. That's why I lost it. I think I even managed to complete the second part of that story, too. No use in remembering since that was almost certainly deleted as well."
I like to gossip, I admit it. I love knowing interesting stories concerning other people. It's present all around. I know people talk nasty things behind my back, too. It's in our nature.Now, I have only one rule. We never invent gossips, we merely discuss them. I have an acquaintance who condescends on us because of many things; smoking, drinking, not having a steady job, not attending classes regularly, for living in garbage (this happens only once in a while), for embarrassing ourselves in public by laughing loudly or attracting unwanted attention, for being happy and normal, for living in an apartment and enjoying some sort of independence, for being unbelievably ignorant about the things that 'matter' (I have to take a small pause and laugh here) and for gossiping. Of course, he is stuffed with virtues the same way a piece of shit is stuffed with vitamins.
I wouldn't exactly call it gossiping. We're more like very well informed. For example, we don't know our professor's e-mail when we have to send her our assignments, but we do know that she hasn't shaved her bottom region in years but only trims it to make it look more appealing. Useful stuff.
Of course, there are those exceptions when gossiping comes to bite us in the ass. This year we got a new professor of English Language Practice. He's a bit of a sissy and spineless, but cute and nice nevertheless. A real sweetheart. Also, we have a local tyrant amongst students, called Gertrude. She's usually very bitter and she never misses out on a good opportunity to show other students and professors that she's better than them. She was really rude to him, but nothing too serious. I commented about this to one of my fellow students and in merely 20 minutes, it got blown out of proportion. By the end of the day, people were convinced that she attacked him and stabbed him in the chest repeatedly with a knife.
"Blair, Alecia and I have become pretty addicted to a game called Treasure Madness on Facebook. It consists of digging through various maps and discovering treasures to complete various collections. Once you complete a collection and secure it in a museum, you gain money to buy health kits or fruit which provide the required energy to dig on. Players are allowed to exchange treasures to complete the maps quicker and that is exactly what we had been doing the whole evening. It all started with a single request posted by Blair on Alecia's Wall.
Blair: Send me the doubles in TM, I need more dollars!
Alecia: What do you need?
Blair: Everything. Send in the extras.
Alecia: Yeah... that's not gonna happen. Make a wish list, I have a whole bunch of that crap.
Blair: Here.
Eva: A whole bunch of crap but nothing I need!
Alecia: I sent everything you posted, Blair. Make a bigger wish list.
Blair: Let's swing!
Eva: Thanks. Update your wish list every now and then. I'll let you have it all... ALL! That's because I'm such a divine person.
Alecia: I have a new wish list. Cast a glance!
(Somewhere around here the conversation took form of our usual arguments.)
Blair: Here, I've filled in all of your gaps. Don't stop sending!
Alecia: New wish lists. Mine's posted.
Eva: We're fucking mentals.
Blair: Ignore that discovery for a moment and keep sending.
Eva: I've got dick. I've let you have everything already.
Eva: Ah, shit. I should have read that twice before posting.
Blair: Let us ignore the ambiguity of that post of yours and keep sending.
Eva: I'm drained; I've got nothing else to give anymore. I could go for a light, though.
Blair: Do you need anything else, Eva?
Alecia: Nobody on the planet has what she's looking for.
Eva: Bite me.
Blair: WHAT'S WITH THE ATTITUDE?!
Eva: There's no attitude. Can't you see I was being calm and polite in my request... Unlike some people around here who have a TENDENCY TO CAPSLOCK!
Alecia: Here Eva, I sent you a cross so that you can pray for your salvation 'cause that dirty mouth of yours surely won't get you into heaven.
Eva: Holy shit! Thank God one of you had that. I can secure the collection now.
Blair: What, neither of you has T-Rex's right arm?"
And another one similar MSN conversation, also related to TM:
Eva: I want a banana.
Blair: What kind of a friend would I be if I didn't provide you with a banana? Here.
Eva: I want some money.
Blair: Yeah, I don't see that happening.
Eva: (here I posted a link leading to an image of Jesus flipping her off)
Blair: God's arrow... WILL STRIKE YOU DEAD!
Eva: Jesus is on my side.
Alecia: I've already given you a banana today, I can't give you another one will tomorrow.
Blair: But I want a banana.
Eva: We all want a banana, Blair.
Alecia: You are insatiable.
Blair: Rawr.
Needless to say, this was all in public. Hopefully people placed us on 'Hide' after the first couple of lines. Those were still more or less decent and didn't quite mark us as complete mental patients in serious deficiency of social life."
"Last Friday, Nellen and I were rather bored so we decided to go out. An acquaintant of ours owns two bars; the smaller one is situated in the centre of the city and it definitely has its charm. We practically spent the entire high school and the bigger part of our college years there. With certainty, I can claim that we have successfully become part of the inventory. The bigger bar isn't that close to the centre and since we're all lazy bastards, we rarely go there. This time was an exception because the smaller bar was being renovated.
Now, the bigger bar has couple of rooms. The biggest one has two bars and a pole. That room was absolutely full so we were forced to sit down in the first room, popularly known as the "penioners' room" since nobody interesting ever sits there. We looked pitiful. We were alone; I was tightly grasping a bottle of Sprite and Nellen was drinking her liquid courage in case her fancy was there. On a scale of pity from 1 to 10, we were a solid 7. Deciding to change that, we chose to dig our way into the second room.
We managed to get a place on the dance floor, next to couple of people we knew, thank God for that. However, we never moved from a 7. It was Sodom and Gomorrah in there. People were squeezing us (not in a desirable way), most of the guests were old and looked as if they would barf on us at any given moment (even though they hadn't even touched alcohol; they just looked that way) and the music was awful. Just to exemplify, the crowd went wild when a song about villagers who sold their cows to get some drugs was played. On top of that, they released some kind of artificial smoke that melted my brain. God forbid someone opened the door to let some oxygen in. It's not as if we need it to live. After that adventure we went home, swearing we'd never return."
I'm often accused of being a stalker. And indeed I am. The moment I hear strange rustling in the hallway in front of our apartment, I immediately jump up and glue myself to the peephole. Few days ago, I saw four of our neighbors entering their apartment, one of them holding a huge dog in his arms. The animal was strangely held so that its legs were in the air. I even thought that it was only a toy, but its legs were flailing about rather naturally, so I concluded it was alive. Strange incident, really.
My stalker abilities ascended the moment I got Facebook. It was like a plague. I would sit in front of my computer for hours, my eyes glued to the monitor till they literally started to bleed, just scanning all sorts of profiles; friends and strangers alike. Years later, I discovered Google Earth which brought my stalking to a completely new level. I was unstoppable, more dangerous than ever. I became a stalker with a satellite. Facebook is to be blamed for all of this, especially the new version containing a whole bunch of new privacy rules no one ever bothers reading. Thanks to that general lethargy, people belonging to the stalking community are able to view almost every profile, read anyone's personal information and study their pictures. Before, if anyone wanted to stalk somebody, they would have to sit in a car under the cloak of darkness, remain unnoticed and pay attention to anyone who might pass by and blow their cover (not speaking from personal experience, thank you very much). Now, stalking is possible in the comforts of your own home, while drinking coffee or within studying breaks (commercial material). Nellen has only recently begun nourishing this newly discovered addiction to Facebook and she's even worse than I am. I actually started working on getting a life. I'm not saying I'm very successful at it, but at least I'm trying.
"If the walls of our apartment could talk, they would probably report us to the police (or have us institutionalized). We have been living here for about 6 months and they have probably seen more drunken and naked asses in here than they would on the Michigan naked mile run.
Honestly, sometimes I think we're no better than those homeless people who inhabit our central bus station. The only difference between us and them is that we pay the rent. Few months back, I had been exchanging e-mails with a young man from Manchester. In one of his e-mails, he had asked me if there was something typical for Croatian people. He exemplified, stating that the French were considered very passionate, the Japanese hard working, the British mostly reserved, etc., and he was interested to know if there was something like that reserved for Croatian people. My reply to him was: "No, we just drink a lot." After that, he mysteriously disappeared and I never heard from him again."
I'm a big sissy. Exposed blood and I don't get along too well. It's not a big deal if it's gushing from, let's say; a scraped knee or a wounded arm. I don't feel comfortable, of course, but I'm able to overcome the feeling of nausea. However, when it comes to body parts overflowing with blood like finger tips or veins, I become mortified when I see them bleed and I immediately faint. The last two times I had to get my blood extracted were hilarious (only to my audience, of course). Two years ago, I chose to go alone, which proved to be the stupidest idea I could have produced at the time. I came to the hospital and sat in the waiting room, along with a huge group of retired people. I watched them pass by me, tightly grasping those little cups of urine. When the nurse called my last name, I froze. Even while I had been sitting there, I didn't feel too well. There wasn't much oxygen in that basement and the smells were overwhelming. It was a concoction of smells; death, sweat, urine and hospital - all in one. Stomach turning, I assure you. On shaky legs, I stumbled inside and sat. I forced myself to think happy thoughts while the nurse did her work and I even lived through the entire procedure without fainting. However, after finishing, the stupid cow handed me some papers and those vials containing my own blood, telling me to carry them into the back room. I stood up, went pale, made few steps and crashed against one of the metal hospital beds resting against the wall of the room. Needless to say, I injured my head and got laughed at by at least 20 pensioners and 5 nurses.
Oh, and another incident. This last summer a friend of mine and I got a job. We were subtitling movies at a film festival as they were being played to the audience. Most of my late night projections ended around 2 AM. Well, one Thursday, I came home around 2, sneaked into the house since my parents had already been asleep, and then went up to my room. I started feeling hungry so I tiptoed back into the kitchen to grab something to eat. My choice was a pate (suitably packed in a can) and a slice of bread. I took the meal up to my room. I sat on the floor in front of my television (I do everything on the floor) and grabbed the can of pate. I struggled with the lid while trying to open it and it slipped out of my hand, half-opened. The edge of that lid was sharp and it cut through one of my finger tips. Blood started gushing all over my laptop and I barely dragged myself into the bathroom to get some toilet paper to wrap the finger. Soon enough I started feeling sick. I yelled and yelled, but my parents couldn't hear me. Just before moving down the stairs, I offered them couple of profanities for not hearing me. Somewhere along the way, I fainted and fell down the stairs. Nothing serious happened. I woke up later, but couldn't find strength to get up, so I slept through the night on the staircase. My mom found me there in the morning. Needless to say, when they were all convinced that I was alright, the whole family laughed at me. Bummer!
Here's a segment from one of my old diaries. I found a whole bunch of them, so I'll probably include them in my posts, too:
"My stream of bad luck remains persistent. I hadn't felt too well yesterday so I ended up swallowing the bigger part of our home medication collection. We ended up watching a really trashy horror movie about a bunch of stupid American teenagers (who else) who wandered off to some kind of Mayan temple crawling with vicious carnivorous plants who had miraculously acquired the ability of imitating the famous Nokia ringtune. Needless to say, those who didn't kill each other got eaten by the plants.
After that, we watched Voyager, which has become a daily ritual. Somewhere around 3AM I felt a bit chilly so I got up and tried reaching for the thermostat from my bed since I had been reluctant to abandon the warmth of my bed covers. That outstanding maneuver resulted with my bed breaking through. The boards loosened and burst under my weight. I couldn't believe my bad luck. I just sat there, in complete darkness, with one hand still in the air, extended towards the thermostat, cursing karma. I tried returning to my previous position, which proved to be a challenge since I kept gliding down along with my mattress beneath a rumble of falling boards.
Now that's why I call irony. I hadn't even USED that bed to its full potential (though that didn't stop others from doing the same) and it betrayed me and broke down beneath me. Of course, in midst of that discovery and shock, I had alerted my roommate Alecia, who had to check the bed the following morning to make sure she hadn't been dreaming."
An interesting discussion of severe length developed today on our way home from college. Blair decided to skip coffee in our apartment so Alecia, May and I went alone. Enticed by my evil twin's (this will be explained later, I promise) choice of book for her reading assignment, "The Twilight", we started talking about vampires being attractive and seductive, immediately excluding Edward as being either of the two. Then we started naming vampires which tickled our fancy, both just as book or movie characters. We were actually applying this so called, 'golden rule', stating the characters we would actually like to be with. If one chose somebody, the others couldn't get him. Somehow, from vampires we switched to fantasy characters, then to sexy men in general. In addition to that, we started talking about what we'd do to them. Really nasty stuff, too. Alecia's golden rule applied to Lestat from "The Queen of the Damned", Johnny Knoxville (pre-Jackass Johnny, back when he didn't need tubes in order to pee) and Mathew Lillard. May and I argued a bit about CSI:New York, but in the end, we reached an agreement. She took the Italian guy and I took the cute detective. Also, I added Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman to the list of men who I wouldn't kick out of my bed.
Few weeks back, my friends and I went to our student mess hall. As we stood in line, we noticed a Chinese girl. That young woman was to be blamed for a series of our failings in a matter of a single hour. First of all, we failed as students of English language. When the lunch lady had enquired everyone present if there was somebody who spoke English, we remained silent. The Chinese girl obviously had a bone to pick with karma as well, because only moments later, she had dropped her tray along with all the food and drinks on the floor. It was rather embarrassing, especially considering that it was rush hour in the mess hall and about 300 people were there. This events caused us to fail as pedagogues, too, since we did nothing to help her. As we sat down, we noticed her sitting about few tables away from ours.
We started guessed where she was from. Alecia made a completely justified assumption that she was from Poland.
"What makes you think she's from Poland?" , I asked.
"What makes you think she's not?"
I tried pointing out the obvious. Regretfully, this led the conversation in a completely different direction and it caused us to fail as normal people. By the end of that discussion, not only did we appear racists, but we could be defined as complete social retards and intolerant dickheads. We even started fearing that the entire mess hall was bugged with cameras and microphones and that the Chinese woman was a governmental experiment hoping to track down people who made comments like ours and then charge them with crimes against humanity. We were really being asses that day. To make amends, we set an objective to locate her and to socialize (hoping she smuggled some sake over the border). I entrusted a friend of mine, Damian, who lives in the student dorm to snoop around and find her, since we assumed she was an exchange student. So far - no results.
Sometimes I simply cannot believe my bad luck. I have been meaning to start this by talking about an nice event, but my stream of bad luck beat me to it. It permanently marked me with the most embarrassing event in my entire life. The only good part is that I won't have to think twice the next time someone asks me which one that is.
My two best friends and I were invited to a birthday party. It was being held in a small village in the middle of nowhere. That village has special connotations attached to it. Every time we'd pay it a visit, it would end up with one of us being involved in some kind of incident. It's a village of sin, definitely. Upon entering it, one must leave their bag of dignity hanging on the board containing its name. Visitors are then allowed to collect that bag upon their departure to the city. Up till now, I managed to avoid being a part of such incidents.
The person who invited us over was my roommate's cousin, a policeman working in a special unit. They are the meanest kind there is. They operate the most delicate and sophisticated weapons, they are involved in the most dangerous operations and occasionally guard the celebrities. His word is the law around there. It has to be the way he wants it since nobody is bold enough to contradict him. To cut story short, I peed on him.
It was not during the party, thank God. After the people had cleared off, we all went to sleep. I was even assigned a bed in a warm room. In the morning, as we were preparing to leave, I went down the stairs and realized that my heart had skipped a beat. Soon enough, I started losing my breath and my vision as well. These are usually the three safe signs that something bad is about to happen. I sat down on one of the stairs and informed my girls that I was about to pass out. They took it as a joke and laughed at me till the moment I kissed the floor. Then, they panicked. They called my roommate's cousin, the policeman, who awkwardly picked me up and hauled me over his shoulder. Unfortunately for both of us, his shoulder got rammed straight into my bladder. This resulted with me peeing on both me and him. When I came round, I felt nauseous and disoriented. I felt moisture all over my pants. For an instant, I thought that maybe they had thrown some water on me to wake me up, but the only way that was possible with such amount of water was if they had hosed me down, which I found very unlikely.
Needless to say, I got showered with numerous jokes later on and got some quality material for "FML" page.
