Tuesday, June 9

Imagine your probable hepatitis every time I get a text message? No thanks.

I need a new cell phone and found one I wanted on Craigstlist and asked the dude to send a picture but he said it was already packed in the box so I was just like F it and drove over there.

I walk into his apartment and am instantly hit by a putrid smell. It's one of those that you can tell isn't there because someone just dumped iffy milk down the drain — it was definitely ingrained in the place. As he took the phone out of its box, I looked around.

The apartment could have easily been a movie set for the scene where the guy who was just dumped can't go on living his life and so is just surrounded by heaps of shit. The drab carpet is completely stained, there are dirty clothes all over the kitchen counter, containers with food remnants are everywhere, and meanwhile the fucking smell is getting to my head.

He hands me the phone. It's in decent shape, but the entire thing is covered in grimy fingerprints and there is some sort of residue on it, like maybe he had rested his gum on there when he couldn't find a scrap of paper to wrap it in. I wiped the whole thing down on my t-shirt. I really wanted this phone.

Truth be told, had the entire transaction occurred without me seeing this man's disease-harboring living quarters, I would have bought it. But as I held that Motorola in my hand, all I could think of was every time I'd been too drunk to hold my cellphone so instead would just prop it on my face while talking in bed. A cell phone is far too intimate an object to acquire from such disgusting origins.

Sunday, February 8

Know what’s a good feeling?

Waking up Sunday afternoon, remnants of eye liner applied Friday evening still lingering beneath your eyes, with the realization that you have been wearing pajamas for an uninterrupted 33 hours.

This is the life I hope for my children.

Wednesday, November 19


I was at the Daily early Friday around 2 a.m. when I got texts from my housemate saying that my other two housemates were a drunken mess. I wrapped up what I was doing and sped home.

One of the implicated housemates could have still been a drunken mess once I got home, but I wouldn't have known because she was in her room hooking up with a boy from the bar.

Housemate #2 was throwing up in the bathroom that, hours earlier, had just been thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of guests. Several minutes of rolling around on the couch, singing songs to herself and a couple nip slips later, she went to bed.

I had to pick up my friend from the airport at 4:30, so had no intentions of going to sleep. I changed into sweatpants, got some hummus and pita out of the refrigerator, and settled into watching Never Been Kissed while I killed time.

At around 3 a.m., another housemate stumbled home with a boy she had just gone to a date party with. He made nervous small talk with me, while holding her purse, as she rifled around the kitchen for potato chips. Then they vanished upstairs.

Sure, 4 out of my 5 housemates were hooking up, but I got to watch Guy "crunch" on Drew Barrymore. I win.

Then at about 4 a.m., the original drunken, vomiting housemate sauntered downstairs from her room. I said "hi," and from the blank look in her eyes, smeared make-up and mumble of a response, I knew she had not recovered in the past couple hours. She went right into the kitchen.

At almost the same moment, the boy that the other drunken housemate was hooking up with appears from another room. He asked me if my housemate was okay, and distracted by the large tattoo featured on his bare chest, I nodded "sure."

Just to be safe, I got up from the couch and saw that she was squatting in the corner of the kitchen. Peeing. Near the stove. On top of a Papa John's pizza box.

I shouted "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" as the boy my other housemate was entertaining looked on. She didn't respond, but instead just looked me in eyes — still expressionless — and bended her way back into blue jeans.

As she retreated back to her bedroom, I told my the boy from the bar to enjoy the rest of his night.

The bathroom was unoccupied at the time of the incident, and the next morning, she said she didn't remember a thing. Dear Rick's: Clean my kitchen.

Sunday, July 27

McDonalds' profits are down 89 cents this quarter because I am so awesome

At around 1:30 a.m. last night, I drunkenly got separated / wandered away from my friends in Adams Morgan, a popular bar area in DC. But as opposed to finding them, calling them, or executing a rational thought process, I asked a man on the street where that McDonalds I saw on the way over was.

I located the Golden Arches and I'm fairly certain that seven to ten drug deals were going down in the booths, but I didn't care. I ordered a fish fillet sandwich. Then, when it came, I told the man who handed it to me that I had been waiting so would he mind putting some fries in my bag. I had not been waiting. He put in the fries. They were incredible.

Then I navigated the streets to find a cab and, once secured, I proceeded to ask the Zimbabian driver about his wife and children.

I wonder if my friends had fun.

Sunday, July 20

I sang Seal and that "Summer Nights" song from Grease, so I'm definitely the expert on this

Near the Dupont Circle area of D.C., there is a dingy sushi bar called Cafe Japone. If one were blindfolded and walked in, he might assume the venue was an abandoned cheese factory. It looks like the sort of place where a prostitute grabs some drinks with friends on her night off (do prostitutes get nights off?).

But what Cafe Japone lacks in ventilation and seat cushions manufactured in the 21st century it makes up for with karaoke.

After my experience there along with others in the past, I've made a short list of immutable laws of karaoke. There are no exceptions, unless expressly specified by me.

1. If you are white, you may not sing Boyz II Men.
2. If you are black, you must sing Boyz II Men.
3. If four to six marginally attractive but provocatively-dressed friends on a girls-night-out tentatively sing Madonna in a tightly formed semi-circle with eyes glued to the TV screen as a crutch while cutely giggling to each other when someone stumbles on a lyric, you may not join in singing. Let them feel awkward.
4. If you are a good singer, pretend to be a bad singer. People are drunk and vulnerable. Nobody wants to hear that shit.
5. Do not sing a song that isn't well-known. If you do, you must either be a) hot or b) overweight and dancing, so as to make the situation entertaining.
6. Do not sing James Blunt. At all. Unless your girlfriend is out of town and you want to make sure that nobody else in the entire bar talks to you for the rest of the night so you won't be tempted to stray.
7. If you attempt to sing "Fat Lip" by Sum41, you are the coolest person I know.

Okay. That's it.

Tuesday, July 15


I'm pretty tired of Facebook calling me fat. Their marketing system has astutely determined that I am a perfect candidate to receive ads promoting Arrested Development T-shirts and waxing treatments, so who am I to think I shouldn't be seeing the ones that say "Love handles?" or "21 and fat?" either? Honestly, they show up like every other page.

Of greater concern is what my Gmail thinks about me. My undying reverence for all things Google doesn't stop short at possible prophetic capabilities, and the ad above my inbox touts:

Don't Touch My Baby - www.mytinyhands.com - A sign that nicely asks strangers to not touch your baby!

Sweet Jesus.

Tuesday, July 1

Overweight adolescent girls love to wear the color lavender

Usually paired with white Keds.

Just an observation.

Sunday, June 22

My sister says that last night I begged the cab driver to sing Chris Brown with me on the way home from the bar

He didn't know who that was, but I guess that just made me sing "With You" louder. I'm surprised at myself for deviating away from my usual tendency to engage cab drivers in conversations about their hopes and dreams or give long-winded background stories about whoever I might be texting.

I shouldn't have to pay cab drivers to drive me home when I'm drunk. They can pay me for that privilege.

Sunday, June 8

"Flirty Mango" Shaving Cream: Not Just For Horny Eighth Graders

In what I will now refer to as the worst decision of my life, a few days ago I knowingly purchased the "Flirty Mango" flavor of shaving cream. Let me defend myself here for a second.

FIRST of all, my mother always buys about 40 bottles of shaving cream at a time when it goes on sale in order to save an average of 15 cents per bottle, so this is probably like.....the second time in my life I've actually purchased a can myself. I was drunk on the power of finally choosing my own. I wanted to -- needed to -- experiment.

And secondly the can was a pretty color.

Well, anyways, I just tried it for the first time. I was really excited because I didn't even know that fruits could flirt, let alone what that would mean for the smoothness and touchability of my legs.

Without exaggerating, it actually smelled like I was shaving with vomit, but the sort of vomit that might come out after drinking too many glasses of grape juice. IT WAS SO BAD.

Instead of accepting my $2.85 loss and embarrassing judgment of consumer products, I will finish the entirety of the can because I deserve to be punished for purchasing anything called "Flirty Mango." It's like the marketing director who developed the name had tried the product, knew how foul it was, and was warning any potential buyers by naming it something that only pre-pubescent girls or divorced 55-year-olds getting back into the dating game would buy.

If you see me wearing shorts, run.

Tuesday, May 20

I'm going to die

I'm sleeping on my friend's couch in D.C. for 3 weeks. About a day after arriving here, though, a mouse also decided to move in (and no, there is no correlation between the events and the three hours I spent on the carpet shoveling chips and dip into my mouth had nothing to do with it. But honestly, it didn't. I don't think).

We've been too lazy to address the problem, though, but I'm fairly confident I can just call his name (I've had hamsters named Sammy, Buddy and Pip and will alternate using those) and instruct him to walk out the door after me.

Well ANYWAYS, I am sharing a room with him. The mouse. He has taken to scampering around the radiator in the living room, conveniently located mere feet away from my couch. I'm so scared he's going to eat me. It's extremely hot, but I've taken to layering many sheets and blankets on top of me, so as to provide a seemingly impermeable force field.

The mystery in all this (even greater than why I wouldn't just fucking buy a mouse trap) is that my friend lives on the twelfth floor of her building. How on earth does a mouse meander up over a hundred feet in order to scurry around my flip flops? For some reason I keep returning to this vision of a little mouse carrying a briefcase and umbrella and taking the elevator. Sometimes he's wearing a sweater vest.


Thursday, May 8

Don't forget "a penchant for frozen dinners" and "not showering"

The following comic was posted on Freakonomics, a blog several times sweeter than this one:

What an alarmingly acute illustration of why I own twelve pairs.

Sunday, March 23


Has anyone EVER actually enjoyed or looked forward to consuming a yellow Starburst? Like, think back to the last time you've bought a pack of Starburst from a vending machine and your vulture friends pounce on you. DOES ANYONE ASK FOR A YELLOW?

No. Because it tastes like shit.

It is a well-known fact that in packs of Starburst, the yellow ones are basically like paying your dues to eat the better ones. You just eat them because you have to. Red and orange come in a bearable second and third, respectively, to the only flavor that actually tastes good, which is pink. This is not one writer's opinion. This is truth. Have a fucking focus group, Starburst. You are wasting your dye.

Friday, March 7

Spring cleaning with a side of tetanus

It was about 2:30 a.m. and as I was sick and exhausted, all I wanted to do was go to bed.

After washing up, I was leaving my bathroom when my shower caught my eye. This shower is shared by five girls and literally has not been cleaned once this entire year. Last night, something in me snapped.

I took off my slippers, rolled up my pajama pants and went to work scrubbing the whole thing. It was lined with mold of all shapes, sizes and textures. The clock was rounding past 3 a.m. when I was almost done and, vigorously scrubbing 6 months of accumulated shit and scum off the shower door, I got a little too into it. In one upward motion, I sliced open my hand on the metal shower handle. My small injury was complicated by the fact that 14 different colors of mold were streaming down my hand from the sponge.

As I watched something orange with a tint of black pour into my open wound, I washed my hands 6 times and emptied a quarter tube of neosporin on my cut. Now my hand is probably hosting a family of parasites...but at least the floor isn't slippery with grime anymore.

Thursday, February 28

I'd Rather Get Toxic Shock Syndrome Than Think About How To Measure My Period Blood

As much as I appreciate Tampax Pearl's concern for my safety, their little chart detailing which size tampon to use in order to decrease the risk of TSS is sort of repulsive. In case you haven't taken the time to cut it out and stick it to your refrigerator, the chart, printed prominently on the side of the box, lists the "absorbency range" for each size tampon, measured in grams.

So, like, if you're oozing 9-12 grams of blood, the chart says that your best bet is to go with Super. Less than 6 grams? Good news, they have just the tampon for you! Well thanks. This all helps very much, because I have a very solid handle on exactly how many grams of blood I'm shedding at all times. As a guiding light, I usually spend a day of my period sitting on top of a measuring cup and then purchase my tampons accordingly.

Blog posts about period blood are the best kinds of blog posts.

Sunday, January 6

I Don't Even Care If This Blog Post Precludes Me From Running For Public Office Because I Obviously Don't Deserve To Win

Let me preface the following story by making a few general statements. First, and most importantly, I do not have even a flash, glimmer or shade of recall of a single event I'm about to describe. Once you read the story, I'm confident you'll agree with me it's probably for the best that this is the case. Secondly, I'm aware my life sucks. And thirdly, I invite you to judge me. Heavily. I'm judging myself.

It was a Friday night and there was nothing particularly special about it. I could rattle off excuses as to why I got so drunk and say I hadn't eaten in a while or something, but it's pretty obvious that I'm just a huge pussy. So anyways, I take lots of shots and get drunk. Last known memory is sitting around the coffee table with my friends, wondering why I'm not that drunk yet.

Now let's work backwards. I wake up the next morning at around 7 a.m. I open my eyes, look at the clock, and realize I have no idea what I did last night. I look next to me: thanks to the power of what is surely a benevolent god, the bed's empty. First hurdle and I passed with flying colors! Things would go downhill from here, though.

Observation #1: My head is POUNDING, but not in standard hangover fashion. It's only in one area, and when I touch it, it burns. My reaction is "oops."
Observation #2: There are wine glasses and beer cans in my room. These definitely weren't there earlier in the night, and before my memories gave way to the sweet, succulent taste of a $17 handle of vodka, to my knowledge nobody was drinking in my room. I figured I would know if there had been a small party in my bedroom. Poor assumption.
Observation #3: I'm still wearing my shirt from going out, though it's rolled up at least half-way, and...a sweatshirt as pants. Like, one of my legs is in the head hole and one through the arm hole. I cannot begin to explain this.

Not missing an opportunity to capture my drunken clothing innovation, this is the cell phone picture I managed (forgive the quality...I had just used a sweatshirt as pants):

I shoot off a couple anxious voice-mails and texts (the first: "What the fuck. I am so confused. Did I not go out last night? Why is there alc all over my room? Any most importantly, why am i wearing a sweatshirt as pants?") and wait for my housemates to wake up so I can find some things out.

Now let's go back to last night. For the rest of the post, imagine that there are "according to's" at the beginning of each sentence, because god knows I don't remember a single thing that happened.

When coming in my room to get my purse to leave, "like out of a movie" I fell backwards and hit my head on my TV stand, BREAKING IT:

Mystery of the throbbing head is solved.

Friends put me to bed and then congregate in my room, which explains the sudden presence of beer cans and wine glasses. Things are coming together. They go out to a party, I go to sleep. But not for long.

Sometime between the hours of 3 a.m. and 6 a.m., I emerge from my room. To do what or why, we did not know. All that was known is that Tatiana woke up to intense pounding. She checks the front door and there's no one there -- it soon becomes apparent that the sound is coming from inside Kari's room. Tatiana opens the door to find me standing INSIDE Kari's pitch black, empty bedroom (she wasn't home), banging on Kari's door, clearly unsure of how to exit the room. Key detail: I am not wearing any pants or underwear.

So just to make this explicit. I'm banging from the inside of Kari's room wearing only a T-shirt. After Tatiana opened the door to facilitate my escape, she said that I didn't say anything-- just incomprehensibly mumbled. Then she recalls with fondness "watching [my] little butt run around" and make it back to my room.

Until about 4 p.m. the next day, that was the entire story. We had no idea why I was in Kari's room--the only viable explanation (barring attempted midnight rape) was that I intended to go to the bathroom, got lost, and somehow wound up in Kari's room.

That was, of course, until I got this telephone call:

Lisa: what
Kari: (almost inaudible due to yells and giggles in the background) i love you, but...
Lisa: what
Kari: um (inaudible, shouts) i just came home (inaudible, laughs) and sat on my chair and (getting a bit more audible) my chair was wet
Lisa: ............what?
Kari: you peed all over my computer chair.
Kari: oh, we smelled it

Andddd for the photograph:

I sat on her chair and peed.

The end.

Sunday, November 11

There Is Literally Not A Single Person In The Country Watching The HBO Signature Channel Right Now

Here's a question: How did a movie entitled "Phat Girlz" make it from the backpack of a 13 year old who just listened to Chris Rock stand-up for the first time and into the hands of Hollywood movie producers? No really though. Phat Girlz? PHAT GIRLZ? Of all the aspiring screenwriters and all the creativity that flows into the movie industry, how does something like Phat Girlz come to fruition? I'm honestly, genuinely curious. I hope some movie executive one day wakes up, realizes that under his watch Phat Girlz was produced, and retroactively fires and blackballs whoever thought it up. Because they deserve it. Because...Phat Girlz?

Saturday, November 10

My Mom Writes E-Mails With The Childlike Wonder Of An Eleven Year Old

My mom sent this e-mail to my Dad, sister and me. We get these all the time. Like ten minutes after she sends it, she'll usually call and say "Did you get my e-mail???" I hope I end up like this.

Good Morning Everyone!

OK --this is BIG!!!
I have had it on my to-do list to go buy this book ("Staying Young"--a new Oprah hottie) for Sossy who just had foot surgery--thinking need to buy it--then come home and wrap it --then go to post office---you know the drill. Then when I woke up today, I got the idea of checking out Amazon.com---and I DID IT!!! Of course, I had to call India for help, but it is now on its pretty little way! And I am still in my nightgown!! This really is very very cool, and I am not kidding. I saved a ton of time. No cute little curling ribbon, but I can get over that. I think. So are you all proud of me!!!!!
OK gotta go--you really dont even want to guess how long I have been on the computer between checking out those shipping rates and talking to my new friend in India and writing this email, yadda yadda yadda!

Love and Kisses, your techie mom, Momma

Friday, November 9

"The Leaders And The Best" Should Actually Be Changed To "People Who Have Less Value To Society Than Tree Bark"

I'm sitting in the stacks right now (a part of the library where there's all these tiny personal rooms/cubicles that are just as good for quiet studying as they are for slutty freshmen girls to give blow jobs in) and reading all the little notes people have written on the ventilator. Obviously these little tidbits of wisdom and sentiments of deep, human emotion can be found absolutely everywhere, but sometimes I like to just sit back and let it sink in that an actual [semi-educated] human thought it'd be worth their time -- and others' time for reading it -- to take out a pencil and write them down. Here's a small sampling.

-A horse is a horse of course of course
-Yo mom sucks good cock
-marijuana is good for you
-thanks dad, you're an asshole (note: this one was my personal favorite)
-screw exams and papers
- ^ i second that!
-a cloudy morning does not signify a misty day, but simply a lacking of all that is beautiful
-I have an 11 inch cock
-fuck OSU (nearby: and fuck your mom)
-someday i'll have sex here
-(arrowed to previous) not a chance!
-(another arrow to previous) maybe with urself
-Alkaholiks fa sho nigga

Sometimes it's fun to think about the fact that one of the authors of those could one day be performing major surgery on me or representing my country. But if it has to be that way...can it at least be the guy with the big penis as opposed to daddy issues?

Friday, November 2

Putting On My New Laptop Keyboard > Rape

So we've been moved into our house since August 28th and are still lacking basic luxuries like...oh let's see...wholly functioning sinks, door locks, and lights. There is no industry so corrupt as the Ann Arbor student housing market.

However, twenty threatening-but-really-not-so-threatening-because-what- the-fuck-are-we-gonna-do-about-it phone calls later, our landlords decide to send a maintenance man over. He's here right now. I'm scared for my life.

He walks into the house, and I'm washing my face. He calls in this SUPER creepy voice "Giiiiirlllllllllssssssssssss." This was my first clue that I wish I hadn't skipped class.

So I'm washing my face and the bathroom door is open and I yell "hello?" He then ASKS ME IF I'M SHOWERING. Okay, weird, but I guess the water is running, so whatever. I respond that I'm just washing my face, and he strolls right into the confined space of my bathroom. AGAIN WEIRD, but he had work to do there, so I decided against converting my nearby toothbrush into a weapon.

I finish washing up, and then say "Sorry, I'll get out of your way." I see him for the first time. He is a mid-50's, overweight, balding past/future/present pedophile. Suspicions are confirmed when I look at him and he says, verbatim, "Oh, and a pretty face it is!" I fail to disguise my shudder and seek refuge in my room, which is adjacent to the bathroom.

For the next twenty minutes or so, every few minutes he mutters to himself "BASTARD!" and "god DAMMIT!" This is a fun backdrop for my daily activities.

Then. And this. Is the worst.

He comes to my doorway and says "Are you the only one home?" I say yeah. (Let it be known that I regret saying yeah, but I said yeah.)
He then says "Oh good," followed by, in a mock whisper, "I have to go to the bathroom."


I hear him open the bathroom window and know that he wasn't kidding. I turn my TV up louder. FUCK.

But this whole while I have been tirelessly slaving away at this one fucking screw on my laptop because I got a new keyboard and I needed to get it out and it wasn't budging. I ask my new friend if I can borrow his pliers to get a screw out, I try, nothing.

Four minutes later he entered my room (cue Jaws music) and asks me if I got it. I said no. Then he spent five minutes trying to get it out, he got it out, and now I'm typing on my new keyboard. And then I made out with him. Just kidding, but I DID offer him a glass of water.

Monday, October 29

I Don't Speak English

Yesterday, my friend was talking about how she likes guys who are ambitious. In reference to her boyfriend, I asked "Is Andrew ambitionous?"

After we briefly locked eyes and subsequently broke into laughter, I berated myself for my presidential-esque word slaughter, but I wasn't laughing on the inside. I was desperately grasping around my brain, trying to arrive at the correct word. Fifteen seconds later, I shouted "AMBITIOUS!! It's ambitious. Is Andrew ambitious?"

This morning, I kept re-typing the word "explisive" into my Word document, wondering why the red squiggly line wasn't going away. Frustrated, I tried dictionary.com. Nothing. They weren't recognizing it. After another attempt on Word, I decided to accept the fact that "explisive" was not a word and, in fact, "explicit" was what I was going for.

Goodbye, English major. Hello, Burger King night manager.