Monday Bear

So I’ve decided that I’m going to get my ovary pierced.  My left one though– If I got my right one done, that would mean I’m gay.

And I’m not.

Also, Sister Mary Harper is on the computer next to mine.  She is one of the few blog- witnessers that exist today.  If I make any grammatical errors (ha!) she’ll be sure to catch them.  She’s an Engrish major.

So here’s the new hit that’s swiffering the nation, or at least the campus of MTSU:  Doin’ it = pooping.

ie;

“I’m going to go do it.”
“Man, I really need to do it.”
“I hate doin’ it in the bathroom at school.”

For purposes of clarification, however, “doin’ it” can still mean “partaking in sexual intercourse.”  It usually means “Pooping,” but most of the time, one can tell when to assume the correct connotation.

For example, if your friends are talking about how they shouldn’t have gone to Freshco Burrito Co. for lunch, and one of them mentions “doin’ it,” they usually mean “pooping.”

If you’re laying with your manfriend on your dorm- sized twin bed, door locked, making out hxc and the dreaded “dry humping” (don’t deny it) and you say to him, “You wanna do it?”  He should assume that you aren’t asking him to take a shit with you.

The new Simpsons was really disappointing.  I’m not gonna lie.

There were these guys in my hallway the other night, and it was after quiet hours, and they were being really really loud, so I went out and said, “Hey, can you guys keep it down?  I’m trying to sleep.  Thanks.”
He says to his friends in one of those making-fun-of-Liz voices, “Hey guys, we have to keep it down.  She’s trying to sleep.”
Some chick says, “Who’s trying to sleep?”
He says, “I dunno, some ugly redheaded chick.”

…Oh no he didn’t.  That made me very very sad.  I already have bad self-esteem this week.

::hormones::

There are these two girls on my floor who think they’re special.  They really aren’t.  Welp, it was like 12 or 1ish last night, and they were screaming and laughing and being goofy.  (And they had boys.  You’re lucky I didn’t tell the R.A.)  So I come out and I ask them to keep it down.  When I closed the door, they all start laughing, and they were being even louder than before.

What disrespectful bitches.  When I wake up at 7:30, I know that people are trying to sleep, so I’m quiet.  You don’t see me running around laughing and such during quiet hours.

I would have come back out and told her exactly what I thought, but I didn’t really want a cap in my ass.

Lia said she was looking at my old blogs and found this image:

She says, “Is that a black woman’s vag?”

…

I love that girl.

But actually, I think she’s talking about the fold in the ballet shoe.

It’s funny that she said, “black woman’s vag” though, because that’s the colour I imagine her vag would be.

Not that I imagine her vag or anything…

*cough*

…

So wow.  I am so glad that rush is over.  There were girls in dresses crying all last week because they people they wanted to pay to be their friends didn’t want the girl to pay them to be her friend.  It’s silly.  They had different days for different styles of dress, as well:

Thursday:  Capris and polo (collar popped, perhaps?)
Friday:  Capris and dressy shirt.
Saturday:  Sundresses
Sunday:  Cocktail dresses.
Monday.  WHITE DRESSES!  OMGz0rz.
So Matt and I went to see Sufjan Stevens Monday (bear) night.  It was absolutely fabulous.  I really dug him and his bird wings.  I liked the opening act even more, My Brightest Diamond.

But here’s the important part:  Matt shit his pants.

No, seriously.

So we’re in the car, on the way to the Ryman Auditorium.

Matt:  We’re stopping at Nana and Favee’s.
Liz:  Why?
Matt:  … to get another pair of underwear.

I didn’t really think much about it.  I mean, he talks shit all the time.

Liz:  Really, why are we here?
Matt then stands up and gets out of the car.  He’s smiling out of nervousness, or because he actually thinks it’s funny, and he has a shit stain on the back of his pants, and on the seat.

It must have been really runny.

So he comes out in Favee’s pleated khaki old man shorts and underwears.  (the underwear were not pleated).  I say, “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED.”

Matt starts cracking up, and he says, ” I thought I had to fart, but I pooped.”

I died, “What adult under the age of 80 shits himself, Matt?!  You are sooo lucky that we’ve been dating for so long!”

I make fun of Matt the whole night.  I felt sorry for him at first, but then I realized that he thought it was funny, so it was fair game.

I would have cried if I shit myself.  Especially in front of Mattchew.  He would have made fun of me.

As I was telling this story to Alyssa and Keri in McCallie, I peed myself a little with laughter, I’m not going to lie.

But that got me thinking:  What do you do if that happens to you on a first date?  I mean, I know Matt’s nasty, but seriously, that’s something that could happen to anyone at any time.  It’s scary when you think about it.

Knowing me, if that had happened to me on our first date, I would have tried to hide it.  I would have said we had to go home because I forgot something.  However, it’s awfully hard to hide a shit stain on the back of your pants and on the seat of your car, so I would have failed, and Matt would have fallen in love with me that much sooner.

And I forgot to mention, I luckily had dirty laundry in the back of his car, so he’s been shitting sitting on my dirty washcloth whenever he drives since Monday night.

That’s a story to tell the grandkids.

Alyssa, Erica, Sister Mary, and I went Xmas carolling the other night.

My favourite xmas song is Let It Snow.  Because I like cuddling.
And songs about cuddling.
I was in the other computer lab yesterday before my Pre-Scripts meeting, and I was writing blog notes.  I thought to myself, “I might as well blog while I’m in here,” but then I realized I had to do it.  (poop).  So I wrote this blognote to myself:

can;t blog, must poop.

I love it.
Holly called me yesterday, and it absolutely made my day.  No, my week.  I was so happy to talk to her.  We talked about several things, such as school, work, Steve, Matt, high school, etc.  I love her : )

So in conclusion, no matter where you go, there’ll always be those douche bags who wear pants with birds on the back of them.  F those bird-asses and let art commence.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 15th, 2006 at 1:13 AM and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.